


Nowheresville

by WhichWolfWins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 1950s, 50s slang, Accepting mother, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - 1950s, BAMF John, Blood, Child Abuse, Double Dating, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gang Violence, Gore, Greaser!Irene, Greaser!Jim, Greaser!Sebastian Moran, Greaserlock, Greasers, Homophobia, Infidelity, Insecure!John, Jealous Clara, Jealous John, John can drive, Knowing mother, M/M, Murder, Scars, Slow Build, Slow Dancing, Smoker!Sherlock, Sort of case fic, Teenagers, Teenlock, The year is 1958, greaser!Sherlock, square-ish!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:17:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhichWolfWins/pseuds/WhichWolfWins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John is stabbed while trying to save a boy's life, he has to return to life as usual, yet he finds it harder than it was before to fit into the jell-o mold he'd previously fit. Then he meets Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I, like many of you reading this, did not live in the 1950's, so there are bound to be mistakes. Also, this fic has not been entirely brit-picked or beta'd. If you spot any errors, I would really appreciate you letting me know of them, so I can correct them and make this fic as accurate as possible.
> 
> For those of you whom it may concern: This fic is sort of a British-American blend, and the location in which this fic takes place in is completely fictional with a few locations you may be familiar with thrown in for fun!
> 
> Nowheresville - A boring, bad place to be.
> 
> I really hope you like this! :D
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC, and anyone else involved with the making and producing of this show. This is in no way mine; these are their toys and I am simply playing with them.

Every morning, after John got out of the shower, he would wipe the steam from the mirror in the bathroom and look at his foggy reflection. He would press his lips in a firm line as he studied the scar in the mirror, watching as the days went by as the scar progressed from a stitched up wound to scabbed over and, eventually, as it was now, a silvery white with a vibrant pink around its edges. Sometimes, he would trace the scar with his finger, feeling the difference between his average, sun-golden skin and the finally healed scar. It was velvety soft.

With a sigh, John looked away from the mirror to pick up the tube of healing cream and unscrewed the cap. He squeezed it onto the pad of his pointer finger and caressed it into the scar tissue until the white blended with his skin, then he screwed the cap back on and placed the cream back in its place behind the mirror. He sighed and leaned his hands on the sink, meeting his crystal blue gaze in the mirror. Every morning, he did this. Every morning, a recycled version of the day before it. 

"Get out of there, Johnny, I gotta do my hair!" Harry shouted, and her fists thundered on the pink bathroom door. "Come on, we're gonna be late!" 

Straightening, John rolled his eyes and untucked the fluffy pink towel from around his waist to pull his dark blue robe on instead. He cinched it closed before opening the door. His sister stood just outside the door with her arms crossed and her hair in curlers. She stepped back as the steam escaped from the bathroom and slit her eyes, the same colour as John's, at her brother. 

"Cool it! _We_ are not gonna be late,” John said, addressing himself and his sister with a finger jab in their directions. “You might be, if you don't goose it. It's not my fault you slept in." 

Harry's mouth fell open and she stomped her foot on the carpet. "You are not going to leave me!" 

"I won't have to if you haul your tail," John said, and then he brushed past his sister on his way to his room. 

Harry snarled and slammed the bathroom door with a loud bang. 

* * *

John scrubbed at his head with the slightly damp towel as he crossed his room to the walnut wardrobe. The wooden doors squeaked as he pulled them open and withdrew a pair of white pants, white socks, gray slacks, and a white button-up shirt. He folded them over his arm and closed the wardrobe with a soft click, then carried them to the olive green blanket covering his double bed. 

John pulled his clothes on slowly, giving Harry time she didn't deserve to fluff her hair. He tugged on his pants, then sat down on the foot of his bed and pulled on his socks. He put his slacks on one leg at a time, then rose from the bed and watched himself in the mirror as he buttoned his shirt, hiding the scar away behind the starched white fabric with each ascending button. His black loafers were the last to go on. Dressed, John stood in front of the mirror and meticulously parted his hair, in need of a good trim, down the right side, and then he was ready for school. He gave himself a final once over, drew in a breath, then went for breakfast. 

It had been a fortnight since John had been back to Bart's High. After the accident, John had been forced to stay home and heal. He'd wanted to go back to school after the first couple days, but his mum was having none of it. She made him stay home and waited on him hand and foot to make sure his wound healed properly. He let her, because he felt guilty for scaring her half to death by almost dying and nearly died of boredom himself as he waited for his mother to finally give in and let him get back to school. He was thankful when his sister used her library card to bring him the Gray's Anatomy book he'd been reading the last time he'd been there. It gave him something to distract his attention with. 

John knew what he was going to have to face when he got back to school. The other kids eyeballing him with curiosity in their eyes, some having the guts to ask about what happened. John wasn't looking forward to it. All he wanted to do was go to school and hang with his friends, then maybe do something after school like go watch a film. He'd been meaning to see if Sarah might want to get a milkshake some time, just the two of them. 

His mum gave him a warm smile as he came into the kitchen. She had her sandy blond hair all done-up like Lucille Ball's and she was wearing a belted blush-pink dress with a frilly white apron tied over it. She was just setting down two breakfast plates piled with sausage, eggs, and half an orange. His mum had spent what felt like an hour at the store trying to decide on the new plates before going with the white ones with little blue flowers around the border - the first plate she'd picked up of at least 10 equally white and blue. 

"Thanks, mum. I'm starved," John said. He set his books on the edge of the table and tucked a napkin into the collar of his shirt. 

Over at the counter, John's mum was squeezing fresh oranges into a frosted yellow pitcher as Harry came out of her room. She glared at John as she dropped her pack onto the floor. John marveled at the fact that she'd somehow managed to get her hair into an artfully curled and fluffed style that was similar to Elizabeth Taylor's in such a short amount of time. Harry picked up her fork and stabbed a sausage, then kicked her brother in the shin as she took a bite. 

They were just finishing up their breakfast when their was a click down the hall and their father came into the kitchen looking very much like he'd just rolled out of bed. His peppered brown hair was sticking up in different directions, there were bags under his eyes, and his chin had two days worth of scruff. His face and white shirt were creased from his bed sheets. 

John glanced over at the sunburst clock and quickly dabbed at his mouth before tossing the napkin onto the kitchen table and rising from his seat. "Come on, Harry, we're gonna be late," he said, picking up his books. He walked over to his mum and curled one arm around her waist as he planted a kiss on her cheek. "Thanks for breakfast." 

Harry scarfed down her egg, then picked up her school books. "Bye mum, bye dad!" she called through her mouthful before quickly heading for the front door with a backward wave. John followed her hasty retreat, avoiding his father's eyes as they passed him by. 

The sky was light blue and cloudless as John stepped out the front door onto the welcome mat. He followed Harry to his car and slid his books into the backseat before getting in the driver’s seat. His stomach was rolling with nerves as he put the key in the ignition. 

* * *

There were kids hanging around outside the school once they arrived, chattering to each other as John pulled into the parking lot. John saw Harry's face light up as she saw her best friend (and girlfriend) Clara waiting near the school entrance, her long brown hair running down her back in a neatly done braid. Harry pressed her books to her chest and fled the car the second John pressed on the brake, hurrying across the parking lot to where Clara stood holding her own school books. John watched as Harry bumped her shoulder playfully against Clara's and held out her books for Clara to stack her’s on top of. He could tell Clara was blushing as she glanced back at him from all the way across the parking lot. 

John sighed as he shut off the car and got out to retrieve his books off the backseat. The sun was warm on his neck and he could feel a matching warmth just underneath his left clavicle where his scar was. The spot had become more sensitive to temperature change than the rest of him after the accident. He rubbed at the spot as he crossed the lot, trying to soothe away the itch the warmth was causing. 

There were eyes on him as he made his way to the school entrance and he could feel them like something physical. He dropped his hand away and kept his eyes straight ahead, ignoring the twinge he felt tensing in his leg. It hadn't been wounded in the accident, but it liked to act otherwise. Gratefully, he spotted Mike Stamford standing by the door, waiting for him with his hands tucked into his dark green khakis. 

"John! How you feelin'?" Mike said, clapping him on the back. "I heard you got poked." Mike winced as soon as the words left his lips. "I mean... ah. I'm sorry, John. I didn't mean to say that." Mike’s rounded face went red from embarrassment. 

"I'm fine, Mike," John said, gripping tightly onto the books at his side. He looked his friend over, feeling like he hadn't seen him in years. "Nice haircut." 

Mike's hands went to the razed sides of his head and he gave a nervous laugh. "Yeah. My mum cut it too short on the right side, so I decided to try somethin' new instead. You're gonna need a cut soon yourself. It's almost touchin' your ears!" 

John nodded. He needed to get a cut within the next couple days or risk expulsion from school. "I'll let my mum know." 

They walked into the school side-by-side, the other kids watching as they went down the corridor toward their usual hangout between classes - the lockers near the lunchroom. Sarah Sawyer was waiting there already and John loosened his death grip, not having realized that he'd been white-knuckling them the whole walk. 

"Hey, John," Sarah said as they came to a stop, a twinkle in her light blue eyes as she smiled at him. "Mike." 

An honest smile warmed onto John's face at the sight of her. "Hey, Sarah. You look on the stick," he said, eyeing her up. She was wearing a dark blue skirt that fell to just below her knees and a white quarter sleeve shirt with a boat neck that revealed her smooth skin. Her nice brown hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, putting her rosy lips front and center. 

She smiled, her cheeks turning a soft pink. "You look good, too, John. How are you doing? You've been gone for weeks!" 

John could tell that she knew about the accident, but she was acting like she didn't and he was glad for it. "Better, now that you're here," he said with a pleased smile. "I was actually wondering what you're doing after school." 

Sarah's eyes widened and her lips curled into a knowing smirk. "Depends. What are you asking?" 

"Wanna get a milkshake at Angelo's with me?" 

Sarah laughed, her suspicions confirmed. "Sure, John. That sounds nice." 

"How about I pick you up at your house. 7?" John asked. 

"Sure thing!" Sarah said, perking up. She waved as she headed off to class and John turned back to Mike, who was smiling. 

"I thought you'd never ask," he said. 

John shrugged. "Figured there was no point in waiting anymore." 

Mike grinned. "That's more like it!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cool it - Relax  
> Goose it - Accelerate quickly  
> Eyeball/Cast an eyeball - To look  
> On the stick - Pulled together, bright, prepared  
> Far out - Cool
> 
>  
> 
> If you have the time, I would really love it if you would leave me a comment to let me know what you thought of this! Also, if you have any questions, ask and I might be able to answer them for you! :)
> 
> There will be porn, eventually.
> 
> If you would like to follow me on Tumblr, you can find me here: http://whichwolfwins.tumblr.com/


	2. Chapter 2

After school, Harry went over to Clara's in her car and John drove home to do his homework. He was thankful that Harry had brought him his homework over the time he’d missed at school, because he finished it with time to spare for his mum to cut his hair, then he drove to Sarah's to take her to Angelo's Diner, only stopping to pick her up a blush pink rose at the florist. They sat down in one of the middle booths by the window, the yellow and white booth John sat in squeaking as he slid in across from his date. 

Billy, Angelo’s nephew, brought over their menus. "Hey, John," the usually quiet waiter said. "I'm glad you're okay." 

John was taken by surprise at Billy's kind words. He'd never realized the waiter even knew who he was. John always said 'hi' when Billy came to take his order and Billy always said the same in reply, but beside giving and taking John's order, they had never really talked. 

"Thanks, Billy. I'm pretty pleased myself," John said, giving him a warm smile. 

"Can I get you guys something to drink?" asked Billy, taking the responsibility of continuing the conversation off John’s shoulders. 

"Do you know what you want?" John asked Sarah, peering at her from over the top of his menu; there was a frayed thread hanging off of the top right corner, which he tugged at as he eyed the menu without interest. "I just want the usual," he decided, having known coming in that's exactly what he'd chose. "A burger, chips, and a chocolate milkshake with whip cream and a cherry on top." 

"That sounds good to me, too," Sarah said, closing her menu and handing it to Billy with a thankful smile, her blue eyes warm. 

"Will that be all?" Billy asked, marking down their orders. 

John and Sarah both nodded and Billy went off with the menus and order ticket. 

Besides them, there were only two other people in the diner. There was a young man sitting at the booth nearest to the door with his homework strewn out across the table, and another equally young man sitting at the far end of the diner. John saw the boy sitting there often. He usually had a glass of water in front of him and nothing else, and most of the time he sat looking out the window with his arms either stretched out across the top of his red and white booth or on the table in front of him. As far as John knew, he was new to town - he couldn't ever recall seeing him in school. Then again, it was likely the boy didn't even go, considering the clothes he was wearing. 

The young man looking at him was one of those greaser boys, obvious because he had his hair longer and it was slicked back. A single dark curl escaped over his forehead in a waterfall hairstyle. He wore a leather jacket over a black t-shirt that matched the darkness in the boy's eyes as he looked intensely back at John. His lips were a prominent cupid's bow, pressed together as their eyes met each other's. 

John felt his breath catch in his throat as the boy looked back at him like he knew exactly what it was John was thinking. He didn’t look curious, but intrigued. He went so far as to cock his head to the side, looking at John almost as though he were inviting him to speak. 

John forced his gaze away from the greaser and met Sarah's blue eyes, making her cheeks match the rose she was turning over in her fingers from his sudden undivided attention. 

"So... how long have you been wanting to ask me on a date?" Sarah said, looking up at John through her long eyelashes. Her nails were the same pink as the rose and her cheeks - the color of a strawberry milkshake. 

John laughed, not having expected the question. "Since the first day I met you," John admitted, smiling, and Sarah’s lips spread into a smile to match. 

"Here's your order," Billy said as he approached, just when the conversation was beginning to lull. He slid their plates onto the table and John smiled in relief. He was starting to think maybe he should have taken Sarah to a movie instead. There was a bright orange elephant in the room. It was clear to him that Sarah wanted to ask about the accident, but that she wouldn't, and John wasn't going to bring it up, because he didn't want to talk about it. John picked up his burger, sensing this date was quickly turning into a fake out, and stuffed his mouth with a big bite. 

Taking the time it took to chew a bite of her food to think up conversation, Sarah ended up filling in the time with small talk and John warmed to the conversation when the topic turned to their friends and events John and Sarah had both been involved in. John got Sarah laughing when he told her that Mr. Gill, the biggest arsehole of all the teachers, had gotten sick in the trash bin when he’d bitten into his grilled spam and pineapple sandwich and found beetles crawling around inside it. Her snort of laughter warmed him, reminding him why they were friends in the first place: they made each other laugh. 

Throughout their meal, John found his gaze wandering rather frequently over to the greaser boy. He kept feeling the boy's eyes on him and every time he looked, the greaser was looking unblinkingly, not even trying to pretend like he wasn't tuned into their conversation. He caught his eyes in the middle of a laugh and there was a curious fluttering in his belly when the boy quirked a faint smile John's way. Swallowing his laugh, John looked quickly away, feeling his cheeks grow exceedingly warm. 

John couldn’t eat anymore after that, there was so much churning happening in his stomach, and Sarah finished her meal a little bit later. 

"You want to catch a flick?" he asked Sarah, pushing away the mostly-empty milkshake he’d been stirring into a froth for the past few minutes. He forced himself not to look at the boy behind Sarah, even though he hovered like a spectre in John's peripherals. 

"Sure!" Sarah said cheerily. 

Together John and Sarah stood up and Sarah pulled on her long powder blue jacket, buttoning it up to the top as John came around to her side of the table. He put his arm around Sarah's waist and walked with her to the door, held it open for her to pass through, then, just before the door closed, he glanced once again at the greaser boy. Across the diner, he caught him looking back with a quirk to his brow as the door swung closed behind John, a knowing smile on his lips. 

* * *

The rest of the date went pretty well, in John's opinion. He and Sarah sat on the hood of his car at the Passion Pit and he took Sarah's hand halfway through it. Sarah let him, holding back just as snuggly through the remainder of the film. Throughout the flick, every time John caught her looking his way, she smiled and quickly looked away, colour darkening her cheeks. He pushed her hair behind her ear so he could get a better look and her cheeks darkened even further as she giggled. When John drove her home later that night, he walked her to her front door and asked if he could give her a goodnight kiss. 

Sarah smiled, her cheeks a warm pink now from hours of blushing, but she shook her head. "I don't kiss on the first date," she told him firmly. 

"Ah shucks," John said, more disappointed than he was willing to let on. "That's okay, though. I had fun tonight," he told her, releasing the hand he’d been holding all the way from the car to let her go in. 

"I did, too. Thanks for a wonderful night." Sarah leaned in and gave him a quick squeeze, then waved and slipped inside her yellow house, leaving John standing on her doorstep with a flurry of mixed feelings in his belly. As much as he'd enjoyed his date with Sarah, it was that boy and his ever-watching eyes that remained at the forefront of his mind as he headed home that night and joined his family in the sitting room to watch an I Love Lucy re-run before bed. His loaded old man was fast asleep tucked into his armchair, a brewski still clutched in his hand when John went for sleep. 

* * *

John saw the greaser boy again two days later. He was heading to the library with Mike Stamford to do their homework together in their comfortable nook at the back of the dimly lit library and he saw the boy leaning up against the side of the red-brick building. He was wearing a white t-shirt underneath his leather jacket and a pair of dark blue jeans rolled up to reveal the white socks and black winklepickers he wore. John quickly averted his gaze before the boy could spot him looking and continued walking. 

"Hey Sherlock," Mike said, and John slowed when he realized Mike had stopped to talk to the boy. 

"Gotta light?" the greaser, apparently named Sherlock, said. "My lighter ran out of fuel." 

Mike patted at his pockets, then shook his head. "Nope. Sorry, mate." 

John swallowed thickly before he reached into his pocket and dug out the pack of matches tucked inside. He had a habit of carrying them around, because his dad often lost his and Harry had taken up smoking sometimes, too, in the passenger seat of the car with the windows all rolled down. "Here, I have one," John said, holding the packet out between them. 

The greaser boy looked up at John as if noticing him for the first time and he pushed off the wall to meet him. John ripped off a match and struck it on the match pack, then held it out for Sherlock to take. He bit the inside of his lip as the greaser boy leaned forward instead and lit the cigarette on the match John held. John realized, as the greaser leaned forward and held John’s gaze, that he’d been wrong before when he'd thought the greaser's eyes were dark. They were the lightest color John had ever seen captured in an iris; like water, they were almost colorless - John found himself drowning in them. 

Sherlock leaned back and held the cigarette between his fingers as he took a drag off of it. John forgot about the match in his fingers and it burned the tips of his fingers. Startled, he dropped it onto the pavement and forced his gaze away from Sherlock's to slip the match pack back in his pocket. 

"Sherlock, this is my friend John,” Mike said, “John, this is Sherlock. He goes to Bart's, too. I met him in the science lab after school," Mike added as an explanation for their acquaintance. 

"Do you go to school like that?" John asked in his surprise, looking the boy over pointedly. "I thought they didn't allow blue jeans. And isn't your hair too long?" 

"He gets special treatment. His brother is the superintendent," Mike explained in Sherlock's place. He laughed as John frowned. "That's what I said the first time I saw him there." 

The greaser took the cigarette from his lips and blew smoke in the other direction before turning the cigarette over in his fingers, studying it. 

"Are you still cataloging different kinds of cigarettes?" Mike asked. 

Sherlock hummed instead of saying ‘yes’. "Lucky Strike. American. Not too bad, but no Pall Mall." He put it back between his full lips and took a deep drag, the burning tip igniting a light in the greaser's eyes as he met John's gaze. 

John shifted, feeling like he stuck out like a sore thumb, and the greaser looked down his nose at him. "You're the square from the diner who always orders the same thing,” he said. “Did that girl kiss you?" 

John frowned, the question taking him by surprise. "Sarah? Why is that any of your business?" 

Sherlock huffed a laugh. "She didn't, did she? And she won't. Not for another two dates, at the least, and not unless you propose going steady. She won't kiss just anybody." 

"How do you know?" John asked defensively, crossing his arms over his chest. 

The greaser rolled his eyes. "The attention she showed to the way she dressed; there wasn't a wrinkle on any of her clothes, not even her coat. The lack of makeup. She must fix her hair after every class, there wasn't a hair out of place. She kept dabbing at her mouth to make sure she didn't have anything on her, but mostly to draw your attention to her. She wants to kiss you, but she won't, because her mother probably warned her about being fast, and she doesn't want to disappoint her parents. I wouldn't be surprised if her daddy gave her a Virgin Pin. She probably has straight A's and gave you a hug instead of a kiss. Must I continue?" 

"That doesn’t... Were you spying on us? Are you some sort of stalker? You should see a head-shrink." John, feeling like Sherlock had just chopped him, turned to split. 

"No, I didn't stalk a couple of squares like you." He looked pointedly at John's clothes like John had done to him only minutes before. He was wearing a pair of pressed dark gray trousers, a plaid white, gray, and black button-up with a dark gray sweater vest on top. "I deduced it. That's how I know that you were injured in your left shoulder, that limp of your's is all in your head, and you blame yourself for that boy's death." 

John's mouth fell open and his eyes shot over to Mike. The other boy had his lips pressed together in a firm line. John went to deny the possibility that Sherlock knew that from just a look, call him a shuckster. Everyone in town knew that John had been injured, though few knew the exact details. Sherlock’s deep voice cut in again before John could bring himself to speak. 

"Of course," Sherlock said, taking one final drag off of his cigarette before dropping it onto the concrete and grinding it underneath his shoe. "It wasn't your fault and you couldn't have saved him if you had the chance to try." 

John clenched his jaw and fisted his hands at his sides. He breathed in deeply, trying to will himself not to knock the boy over. He was hacked and ready to give the greaser a knuckle sandwich. "How do you know?" John said, his voice slightly wavering as he tried to hold himself in check. 

"Because I saw the body," Sherlock said. "Speaking of which, I've left my belt at the morgue." The greaser boy gave Mike a parting salute before he began to walk away. As he passed by John, he winked at him and clicked his tongue, and then he was gone, disappearing around the other side of the library. 

"Forget about him," Mike said softly a moment later. "Sherlock always jumps bad. He says those kind of things to get a rise out of people, trying to get them to throw the first punch. Can't tell you how many times he's gotten roughed up, though most of the time it's because someone thinks he's giving them 'the eye'." 

That brought John out of his angry haze and he blinked over at Mike. "What do you mean, 'the eye'? 

Mike laughed, a smile pushing up his rosy cheeks. "You know! 'The eye',” Mike raised his eyebrows suggestively. “They think he was showin’ interest." 

"What, like he was queer?" 

Mike nodded. "I doubt it's true, though. Not that he isn't, but that he was eyein’ them. Sherlock doesn't eye people like that. Doesn't seem to be interested in anyone, really." Mike shrugged, then glanced over at John with a twinkle in his eye. "Though, he didn't seem not to like you." 

A pleasant warm feeling curled in John’s stomach and he laughed, because he felt like if he didn't, he might get sick on his shoes. "That was him _not_ not liking me?" 

"Believe it or not," Mike said. He nudged John with his shoulder. "Come on, let's get this homework over with so we can catch American Bandstand." 

John nodded and he and Mike Stamford walked the rest of the way to the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fake out- A bad date  
> Passion Pit - Drive-in movie theater  
> Flick - Movie  
> Loaded - Drunk  
> Square - Someone not cool; a regular, normal person; a conformist.  
> Going steady - An official couple  
> Virgin Pin - Given to a girl by her father. She wears it until she gets married, and it is often turned into her husband's wedding ring.  
> Chop/Chopped - Diss/Dissed  
> Shuck/Shuckster - A deceiver, liar, or cheat  
> Hacked - Angry  
> Knuckle sandwich - Punch in the face  
> Jump bad - To look for a fight  
> American Bandstand - A t.v. show where teenagers danced to Top 40 hits.


	3. Chapter 3

The nightmare started as it often did with John walking around under a dark sky. The town was just going to sleep as he walked, the lights in houses flicking off as he passed them by. The night was pleasantly warm, a cooling draft drifting over him every block or so.

The nightmare started off seemingly normal, but then John heard shouting somewhere off in the distance and it echoed continuously. He saw movement as he was passing an alley, and then there was the piercing scream. 

John raced down the alley toward where the scream had come from and it petered out as he neared. Laying on the ground in the center of the alley, surrounded by pavement that looked like diamonds from a recent rain, was a young boy. John's heart sank and he raced to the boy, dropped down onto the pavement beside his writhing body. He could barely see him, lit only around the edges by the soft glow of a streetlight nearby, but it was enough light for him to see all the blood swirling away into a puddle. 

"What's your name?" John asked as he searched for the wound in the boy's dark red shirt. He felt the wet of the blood and trembling beneath his hands. Panic quickly filling him, John pushed the boy's leather jacket open and ran his fingers down the cloth, looking for the tear through his blurring vision. "What's your name?" he said, trying to at least sound calm. 

"C-Carl," the boy managed, then proceeded to cough up blood. 

"Who did this to you, Carl?" 

Carl's throat clicked as he struggled to speak. "M...M...-"

Suddenly John was yanked away from Carl by the back of his green sweater and deposited on the ground with a splash. He looked up, but was completely blind in the shadows. He couldn't see anyone, but he felt someone drop their weight on top of him, then dig their knees into his thighs to pin him like a frog being readied for dissection. John struggled to get the person off, thrashing in the dark against them, but he felt the slice of the blade anyway as it pierced through his skin. His screams echoed in the alleyway. 

John gasped for air in the dark of his bedroom and sat up, a whimper caught in his throat. He struggled from his blankets, their weight anchoring him down, and shoved them aside to get out of bed. His heart was thundering in his chest and he couldn't breathe - there wasn't enough air in the world. He really needed some air! In desperate need, he shoved his feet clumsily into his loafers and yanked on his oatmeal jumper before slipping quietly down the hall and out the front door. 

The night air was crisp and John sucked it in greedily to feel his lungs expand and the oxygen clear his head. His left leg ached, but he ignored it as he walked away from his house and turned left instead of right, in the opposite direction of the center of town where he'd been on his dreamwalk. John continued, feet eating the pavement, until he reached a split in the road just off Northumberland. There, he turned right. Walked up the long, winding dirt road until he finally reached the destination of St. Bartholomew's Point. 

Finding no one there, he walked toward the cliff's edge and sat down so that his legs dangled over the side, knocking tiny rocks over the edge to fall into dark oblivion. Feeling like he could breathe again, John sighed and tucked his hands between his knees.The stars were bright over the water down below and they sparkled in the water's reflection as it rippled from the gentle breeze. If John were to lean forward just a little too far, he wouldn't survive the fall. 

"Thinking about jumping?" 

John nearly startled forward off the cliff and he turned around to glare. He knew only one person with such a baritone as that and wasn't at all surprised when he turned to find the greaser smirking down at him. Sherlock had gotten startlingly close without John having heard him and John chided himself for being so distracted as to not have noticed. "Now that you're here," he remarked dryly before turning back to look at the sky - if only to avoid this boy reading him as easily as a book again. 

Sherlock's laugh was a deep rumble that caused a stirring in John's stomach. He swallowed and forced his gaze to remain on the stars as rocks scattered behind him and Sherlock sat down, barely an inch separating his leather jacket from the wool of John’s aran jumper, a spectre again at the corner of his eye. 

John sighed and looked over at him. "What are you doing here?" 

"I could ask you the same, but it would be pointless as I already know the answer." 

John cursed without muttering a word and turned to Sherlock. "Oh really? My ears are open." 

"It's an easy conclusion. You suffered a traumatic experience where a boy died and you were stabbed. It makes sense that you would have nightmares." 

"Then why am I up here?" 

Sherlock smiled and looked out at the expanse of the dark blue sky. "Either you were thinking about jumping or you needed to get away from your bed, where the nightmares take place. The middle of town was where it all happened, so you came here. Fresh air, privacy, and a big open sky." 

"Two out of three," John mumbled under his breath. Sherlock chuckled softly. 

"How'd I do?" 

John looked at the greaser and couldn't ignore the flutter in his belly when he saw how earnest the expression on the boy's face was. "You killed it. Really cookin'." 

"Really?" Sherlock said, a look caught between surprise and suspicion on his face. 

"Really. You're crazy!" 

Sherlock smiled at John in a way that looked like he was trying to hide it. "People don't normally say that." 

"What do they normally say?" John asked curiously. 

"Beat it." 

John met Sherlock's eyes and he burst out laughing. His laugh embarrassingly turned to a giggle as he heard Sherlock join him. 

With tears in his eyes, John managed to get his laughter under control. He wiped at his lashes with the back of his hand and looked over at Sherlock. "Be real. What are you doing up here?" 

The greaser smiled and shrugged. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and plucked a fag free before offering the pack to John. John shook his head and Sherlock tucked it away as John dug the matches from his pocket. When Sherlock leaned forward to light the tip of his cigarette on the match blazing in John’s fingers, he held John’s gaze again. John found it hard to breathe - again. 

"So, you got a girlfriend?" John asked when Sherlock pulled away, then winced when he realized what that might seem like. He watched Sherlock inhale from his cigarette and shake his head. 

"Girlfriends; not in my orbit." 

John swallowed and swung his legs, bumping his heels against the cliff beneath him. "A boyfriend? Because it's no sweat, if you do. My sister... I don't mind." 

Sherlock took the fag from his lips and blew out a steady stream of smoke in front of them. "I know it's fine," he said once it was all expelled. He glanced over at John, opened his mouth, then went back to looking at the stars. "Look, John. I'm flattered, but I'm married to my work-" 

"No. No, I'm not... I'm not homosexual,” John stressed. ”I was dating Sarah, remember?" 

"Was. Past tense. Why?" 

John laughed dryly. It was a week and a half after John's first date with Sarah. They'd gone out three more times, though John kind of lost interest by the second date. He’d continued with it, though, because he'd wanted to see if Sherlock's deduction was correct. "You were right. She let me kiss her on the third date. Barely a peck," he added. 

"She broke it off, though," Sherlock added matter-of-factly. 

"We both agreed it wasn't working." John grabbed a rock and threw it off the cliff. "She wasn't interested in necking, didn't like me touching her except holding her hand, and she wasn't interested in sex until marriage. I liked her, but we ran out of things to talk about real quick, so there was really no point. We're better as friends, which is pretty much what we'd be even if we did end up going steady." 

Sherlock didn't say a word, just hummed as he inhaled smoke, then flicked his cigarette out into the empty space before them. 

"What do you mean by 'you're married to your work'?” John asked, remembering what Sherlock had said. “You've got to be what, 16? Busing doesn’t seem like the kind of job one would confess their love to." 

"I'm a consulting detective,” Sherlock said curtly. “The only one in the world." 

John grinned. "You're a real hoot, you know that?" 

Sherlock flashed him a quirk of a smile. "So your sister is a lesbian?" 

The question took John by surprise, but then he remember his slip up earlier. He considered lying, but he'd already practically told Sherlock, anyway. He nodded instead. "She has a girlfriend, Clara. They've been together almost a year now. My mum's starting to wonder why it is she isn't dating, and so is Clara's." 

Sherlock studied the side of John’s face in the silence. "You're worried what your father will do if he ever finds out." 

John glanced at Sherlock, once again thrown by the boy's intuition. He shrugged and studied the stripes on his pyjama bottoms. 

"You know, I could help with that." 

John looked over at Sherlock, eyebrows going up in surprise. "Oh?" 

"Pick her up like we're going on a date,” Sherlock said simply. “You could do the same for Clara." 

"What, like a double date?" 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, then placed his hands in front of his lips like he was in prayer. "I didn't mean actually going on the date, but I see what you mean. It would be best if they were actually seen dating other people." 

John dragged his fingers into the dirt beside him, sifting the rocks into piles. "That way they could actually go on the date with each other." 

Sherlock hummed quietly in agreement and John felt himself blush at the thought of going on a fake double date with the greaser beside him. He wondered if Harry were interested in men if she’d be interested in a guy like Sherlock. The thought made him laugh quietly to himself. No, she wouldn’t. Sherlock would probably annoy her half to death. He was real jazzed to tell her about Sherlock's idea, though. He hoped they'd be made in the shade. 

"You don't have to if you don't want to. I know hanging out with a square like me must be a form of torture for you. You must see me as a real drip," John said. He picked up another rock and threw it out in front of them. He watched the water below to see where it landed, but it was too far down and too dark to see. 

Sherlock looked at him with startling intensity in his eyes. “I was wrong about you,” Sherlock admitted. “The most square thing about you is your belt buckle." 

John felt a grin split across his face and he bumped his leg against Sherlock's. "I was wrong about you, too. You're the opposite of cool." 

Sherlock slit his eyes at him and John burst into laughter again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kill - Really impress  
> Cookin' - Doing it well  
> Crazy - Implies an especially good thing  
> Beat it - Go away  
> Jazzed - Excited  
> Made in the shade - Success  
> Drip - Someone who is no fun


	4. Chapter 4

When John told Harry about the plan, his sister's eyes grew shiny and she quickly hid the fact by pulling him into a big hug. "Are you for real, Johnny? That's the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me!"

"Of course! Anything to help my little sis!" He gave her a noogie to change the awkwardness of the situation and he and Harry ended up wrestling on her bedroom floor. 

* * *

Sherlock showed up the next night at 7 on the dot. When John's mum opened the door, it was to reveal Sherlock standing in a pair of black jeans, a black t-shirt, and his leather jacket. John's mum's face lit up. "You must be Sherlock," she beamed. She ushered him inside quickly, closing the door firmly behind him. 

John's father was sitting in his armchair watching the t.v. with a beer in his hand and it took him longer than it should have to notice they had a visitor. His eyes skated over Sherlock and John saw his father's nose wrinkle before he took a drink from his beer and turned back to the t.v. 

"John, go see if your sister's ready," said his mum. 

"Yes, ma'am." John dusted the flour off of his hands into the sink and quickly rinsed them off. 

At the sound of John's name, Sherlock looked into the kitchen and caught John's gaze. His eyes swept over John, taking in his light gray slacks, his white and blue plaid shirt peeking out from underneath his soft powder blue sweater. 

"Hello, John," Sherlock said, his eyes penetrating. 

"Hi, Sherlock. We'll be just a moment," he said quickly, then escaped the room and Sherlock’s unreadable gaze. Every time John saw the greaser, it seemed like Sherlock knew everything on John's mind and he hated it, because Sherlock seemed to know so much about him, yet John knew very little about Sherlock. 

John headed down the thin hall and knocked on Harry's door. "Sherlock's here. Hurry up!" he called through the wood, then he walked to the end of the hall to his bedroom door. He went in and pulled on his oatmeal sweater, then caught his reflection in the mirror and felt his cheeks burn as he saw the dusting of flour that had somehow found it's way across his right brow. 

"...took baths together with their dolls,” he could hear his mum saying from the sitting room a few moments later. “Clara was always brushing Harriet's hair,” his mother laughed. “John was really sweet on Clara for a while and I never thought he would do anything about it. I thought he'd gotten over it, but I guess not!" 

John heard the unmistakable sound of Sherlock’s laugh and John's reflection smiled in the mirror. 

"John always had that jumper with him and it just swallowed him up! He slept under it for years. He just finally grew into it! Look there! See that foot? That's Harriet! And that hand there is Clara. They could all fit inside of it then. It took me about five minutes to get them all untangled!" 

John frowned down at himself and pulled the jumper off over his head, creating static. Instead, he reached for his red and white letter jacket. 

"...caught them kissing all the time. They were so curious when they were little, you know? I just managed to get a picture before she and Clara ran away giggling. Caught John and Clara kissing a couple times, too, but I never got a picture." 

John’s hair rose from the electricity and he tried his best to smooth it back down with the help of a little gel. 

“Oh, look at this! He was kissing the neighbor boy! They were so little and I forgot the boy's name. His family only lived over there for a little while,” she explained. “He and that boy were always holding hands.” His mother sighed wistfully. 

John patted at his pockets, searching for the lump of a wallet that wasn’t there. He glanced around the room. 

“He sure had a head of curls, that boy! John always buried his little face in them whenever they were taking a nap." 

John paused his search at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. "Do you have a picture?" he heard him ask. 

"I believe I do! Here, let me look.” 

John resumed his search, checking his trouser pockets from the day before. 

“Ah! See? So many curls! And see there? They're holding hands! Harold just about had a coronary every time he saw that, but I thought it was the cutest thing! Puppy love, I swear it!" 

John had looked at the picture album many times, but he could never remember that little boy's name, no matter how hard he tried; they were just too young. But in almost every picture that they weren't sleeping, they were kissing, laughing or smiling at each other, and, of course, holding hands. There was one where they were wrestling on the floor and another a few moments later where they were both crying, but by the third picture, they were crying in each other's arms, John with his chubby arms wrapped around the boy’s waist and the boy with his scrawny little arms cradling John’s shoulders, his tear-streaked cheek pressed against John's neck. 

"Here's another one of them sleeping in the jumper! They were always in their own little world, those boys." His mum giggled at the memories. 

John spotted his wallet fallen in the crack between the headboard of his bed and the wall. 

"Clara was stuck in that tree! Harold went to get the ladder, but Harriet wasn't going to wait. She climbed up there like a monkey! See that blur right there, with the first aid kit? That's John! He's always wanted to be a doctor. Oh, what a sweetie. The second he saw that Clara had gotten a scratch, he ran inside to get it. He patched Clara and Harriet right up, and he even wrapped up Harold's ankle, because he sprained it falling off the ladder. Oh! He even took care of me! See the band-aids over my eyes? It was to heal me so I would stop crying! Such a sweet boy,” his mum said softly. “And there's Harold giving Harriet a horsey ride. She loved that cowgirl hat. There's her trying to give Harold a ride!" 

John figured he'd let his mum torture Sherlock long enough and he only paused in front of the mirror for a few more seconds to smooth his hair again before forcing himself away. It wasn't like this was an actual date! 

John left his room and headed down the hall. He banged on Harry's door and it flew open under his fist to reveal Harry with a lavender dress on underneath a black button-up cardigan. 

"It's pretty warm out, Johnny. You won't be needing that," she said, eyeing the letter jacket folded over his arm. 

"Don't worry, Harry. I'm not gonna give it to Clara," he said with a smirk. 

Harry huffed and brushed past him on her way to the sitting room. Sherlock stood up as soon as they came into the room and he smiled at Harry like there was no one else in the room. 

"You look beautiful," he said, and from out of nowhere, he produced a single yellow daisy. 

Their mom clapped her hands together over her heart, making Harry's cheeks turned a deep shade of pink. "What a gentleman!" 

From his chair, their father snorted and Sherlock's eyes flicked over Harry's shoulder to meet John’s eyes, but he avoided them, instead going for the keys. 

"We will be home by 10:30," John promised 

Their mum set the photo album aside and got up. "Have fun on your double date!" she said, then gave Clara a Hazel Bishop kiss on her cheek. "You really do look lovely.” She smiled proudly at Harry with tears in her denim blue eyes. 

Harry's eyes watered, too, though she hid it quickly. "Thanks mum," she said, darting a quick kiss to their mum’s cheek before heading for the door. Sherlock followed her out. 

"Your eyes are so blue!" his mum said, standing in front of John. She smoothed down the front of his sweater and straightened the shoulders. "My handsome boy," she smiled. She pecked his cheek and John thought she was going to pull away, but then she was whispering in his ear. "You're such a good brother," his mum whispered, and John's heart got lodged in his throat. 

When his mum pulled away, she swiped at her eyes, then reached up and smoothed down his hair. "Enjoy your film!" 

John nodded, feeling stunned. He turned and headed out the door, feeling like his legs were disproportionate to each other. Harry and Sherlock were sitting close on the back seat with Sherlock's arm draped over her shoulders when he got in. 

"Harry," John said, taking longer than he should trying to get the keys out of his pocket. 

"Hmm?" 

He snagged them and clutched them in his hand as he met his sister's eyes in the rear-view mirror. "Did you tell mum about you and Clara?" 

"What? No, of course not!" 

John pressed his lips together in thought. "I think she knows." 

Harry swatted John over the head, making hairs stand on end again. "What are you talking about? She can't possibly know, unless you told her yourself! Johnny, what are you saying?!" 

"Hey, don't blame me, Harry! Maybe she saw you two up to somethin'!" John patted his hair back into place. 

"No! We don't do anything anywhere anyone can see us! I'm not stupid, Johnny!" Harry’s blue eyes were like fire in the mirror’s reflection. 

"Well-" 

"Your mother isn't blind," Sherlock chimed in, his voice smooth as velvet. "She's known for a long time, probably since you were children. It's painfully obvious, if you just have the sense to look." 

John and Harry both gaped at Sherlock, and then Harry turned away and huffed, crossing her arms. "Not all of us are consulting detectives," Harry mumbled. 

Sherlock met John's gaze in the mirror and he raised his eyebrow. 

"What?" John said, embarrassed. "I told her about how you came up with the idea for the double-dating thing. She asked who you were, and I told her." 

Harry huffed again and John rolled his eyes and started the car. 

"A flower." 

Sherlock furrowed his brow in the backseat. "What?" 

"You got her a flower." 

"Yes. Isn't that what one's supposed to do on a date? You did for Sarah." 

John pursed his lips. Of course, it was perfectly normal to get a flower for your date. "So why yellow, then? There has to be a reason." 

"Does there?" Sherlock inquired, his eyes challenging. 

"'Yellow is for friendship'," Clara said. 

"What?" both boys said in unison, there eyes turning to Clara. 

She hesitated a moment, thrown by the sharpness of their attention. "Mom has a book about the meaning of flowers. 'Yellow means friendship.'" 

John looked away, feeling like an idiot. He wished he hadn't said anything about the bloody flower. He didn't even know why he had. 

"Yellow," Sherlock said, "is Clara's favourite colour." 

John glanced in the rearview mirror. He knew that. "How do you know that?" 

"It's the colour she wears the most," he said with a shrug. "I wouldn't be surprised if she wore it tonight." 

"Wait," Clara said, holding the flower up. "You got this flower for Clara?" 

"Noope," Sherlock said, sounding bored with the conversation. "You did." 

Clara's mouth parted in awe, but she caught herself and her lips twisted quickly into a pout. "I didn't know yellow was Clara's favourite colour." 

John pulled up to a stop light and he frowned at the road ahead, not sure what to say to his sister. He looked at Sherlock in the mirror and found him looking back at him, his eyes bright. 

"A daisy means, 'I'll keep your secret,'" Sherlock continued. 

* * *

Clara's mum, Darleen, did basically the exact same thing his mum had done, except she also sent him to the car with a bag of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Clara looked beautiful as always with her long, dark brown hair curled at the bottom. As Sherlock had predicted, she was wearing a soft yellow dress with a single-button white cardigan closed over it. 

Darleen didn't seem to know that it was a fake double date and she didn't stop chattering on about how she just knew John and Clara would end up together. "She was always begging to go to your house!" 

John couldn't help but laugh at how ignorant some people could be and he smothered his laughter with a cookie and guided Clara out of the house with a wave to her mum. Clara climbed into the front seat and turned around to beam at Harry. 

"You look so pretty!" Clara said, smiling brightly. She reached out a hand to Sherlock and he took it for a shake. "I want to kiss you, but you're too far away!" 

That made Sherlock smile and he chuckled. "No need. It's my pleasure." 

When John looked into the rear-view mirror, Sherlock seemed to sense his gaze and looked back, his eyes still bright with amusement. John swallowed hard before looking past him to the road and backing out of the driveway. 

On the drive to the indoor theater, Clara and Harry asked Sherlock all about himself and John listened attentively as Sherlock answered one of their questions and told them about his brother. 

"He's an arse, but he comes in handy when I need something. He buys me cigarettes, because he's afraid that if he doesn't, I'll do something stupid." Interest piqued, John looked at Sherlock's reflection. Something about the way Sherlock said that made John there was more to that comment then met the eye, but Sherlock was looking out the window and he couldn’t detect what it was that made his stomach shift uneasily. 

"Have you lived here long? I don't think I've ever seen you around," Clara said, sitting on her knees and peering into the backseat. 

"That's because you only have eyes for Harry," John said, and received a swat to the head from Clara this time. 

"Oi! No hitting the driver!" 

"I lived here when I was younger," Sherlock replied, "but we moved to London for a while. We came back here a few months ago, because I got into trouble in school too many times." Sherlock shrugged. 

"Do you plan on going back there?" John found himself asking. 

"After I graduate, probably, though I've got a good reason to stay for a while." 

John’s eyes snapped up to the mirror and his heart started racing when he saw the look on Sherlock's face. Once again, Sherlock was looking at him, and there was that something in his eyes again that made John blush all over. It made John think about his conversation with Mike. He doubted ‘the eye’ Sherlock gave those boys was anything close to this. This, John felt, was most certainly 'the eye'. Wasn't it? Did he want it to be? 

No, John decided. And even if he did, Sherlock didn't want John to want it to be. Or, if he did, he certainly didn't want John. Married to his work, Sherlock was. He wondered if Sherlock did like him, if 'the work' would prevent him from going after him if that was the case. Was Sherlock interested in him without John knowing it? Was this Sherlock showing that he was interested in John? What did that mean? 

John sighed heavily, trying to calm the racing thoughts in his head. Sometimes, he thought, he thought too much. 

The theater loomed into view and John pulled into the parking lot. When he got out, he circled around the car, opened the passenger door, and held his hand out for Clara, and they kept their hands joined as Sherlock and Harry followed their lead. Each 'couple' walked hand-in-hand to the theater entrance. 

They made a big show of who it was they were there with. Clara clung to John's arm and giggled and John turned his body in toward her and laughed against her ear. Sherlock and Harry were leaning in close whispering to each other and John had to fight not to crane his neck from how much he wanted to know what it was they were saying to each other. 

He wasn't sure exactly what it was that made him do it, but he found himself reaching up and tucking Clara's hair behind her ear, then leaning in close. "Something's wrong with me," he whispered to his longtime friend. 

When he pulled away, Clara's eyebrows were bunched together. She cupped his cheek and met his eyes with her big brown ones - always so open and honest. "What's wrong? Are you feeling sick?" 

He shook his head and bent down a little to whisper even more quietly. "I don't know. It's Sherlock." 

Clara's eyes crinkled and she beamed up at him. Leaning up, she kissed his cheek, most likely marking him with her pink lipstick. "Don't talk yourself out of it, John. If you like him, you like him. I spent a lot of time with a lot of boys before I admitted how I felt for Harry, and that was a lot of time wasted. Let whatever it is happen naturally." 

Ever since John realized that it was never going to happen with Clara, they'd grown to be really close friends. She always had a way of making him feel better and knowing what it was he meant to say without him really needing to say it. Unable to hold himself back, he pulled his friend into his arms and hugged her to him, his stomach twisted in knots. "Thanks, Clare." 

After buying really buttery popcorn, strawberry taffy for the girls, banana taffy for John, and chocolate taffy for Sherlock, the group of them walked into the theater. They chose to take seats in the far back in the corner where it was darkest and they had the most privacy, and then they rearranged so that Harry and Clara were sitting beside each other near the darkened corner and John and Sherlock were side-by-side. 

Beside him, Harry handed the flower to Clara and murmured something, and a moment later, they were attached at the lips, Clara clutching the flower in her hand. John sighed and stretched his legs out in front of him. The theater had been Sherlock's idea, too. Since there was a double bill at the drive-in, there were a lot less people in the theater, lowering their risk of being caught. 

John did his best to ignore the couple necking next to him - he didn't want to watch his sister making out, no matter how hard he worked to make it possible - and that meant angling his body so that Sherlock took up half of his view. 

Partway through the movie, Sherlock started shifting around impatiently beside him and John groaned. "What's wrong? Do you have to go to the loo?" 

"It's obvious that the boy did it," Sherlock said. 

"How do you know?" 

Sherlock looked over at him, disappointed, but he dove right into explaining. "These people are imbeciles. How would the old woman know how the father died if she hadn't seen the boy do it? Just because the woman isn't wearing her glasses, doesn't mean that she didn't see what she said she saw, and just because there was a train passing, doesn't mean they weren't able to hear the boy shouting. These people were right at the beginning, but they're talking themselves out of it. The boy obviously didn't go to the bloody movies, because he can't remember a thing about it! You should almost always go with your first instinct." 

John laughed, enjoying the chance to see Sherlock frustrated for once. "I've seen this one already; watched it with Sarah. The boy is let go." 

Sherlock groaned and crossed his arms, wiggling the foot attached to the leg crossed over his knee. "Idiots." 

* * *

When the film was over, they paired off again and headed out to the car. Harry was going to stay the night at Clara’s, so he drove them to her house. All the while, butterflies fluttered around in John’s belly, because dropping them off meant being alone in the car with Sherlock, and suddenly that sounded very, very frightening. 

The girls thanked Sherlock, giving him a squeeze before they went inside Clara’s ranch-style house, bumping into each other as the made their way up the walk. Once they were alone, John tapped his steering wheel and glanced at Sherlock in the rear-view mirror. “Where to?” 

“Montague Street,” came Sherlock’s reply. 

On the drive to Sherlock’s house, John worried the inside of his bottom lip. Ever since Sherlock had offered to help him, his sister, and Clara, all John could think was ‘why?’ Why would Sherlock want to help them when he barely even knew John? 

“Go on, then. Say it,” Sherlock said from the backseat. When John looked into the mirror, he met Sherlock’s eyes, his own drawn to them like a magnet. He had to force his gaze away or crash the car, and he really didn’t want to have to pay for the damages. 

“You don’t seem like the kind of bloke to just help people for the heck of it, so why did you offer?” John glanced back up at the mirror and caught the amused smile as it revealed itself on Sherlock’s face. 

“It’s the last one on the right,” Sherlock said. 

John turned back to the road and spotted the house Sherlock was talking about and he gaped openly at it. “Wow,” he said as he pulled the car to a stop on the curb. “You’re rich, aren’t you?” 

The house was three stories tall and made of brown stone. There was a set of white front doors with sunburst windows at the top and the shutters on the windows had a similar cut-out pattern. There was also a big, tall tree that stretched up passed the slightly pointed roof on the left side of the front yard. The shrubs lining the house under the windows, as well as the rich green grass, were recently trimmed with not a leaf or blade out of place. 

Sherlock hummed his answer. “As for your other question,” Sherlock said. John looked over his shoulder at Sherlock and his breath hitched in his chest as he met pale green eyes. He could have sworn they were gray the last time he’d seen them. 

John forced his gaze to remain on Sherlock’s eyes and not roam his face like they seemed to want to. Sherlock's lips were right there. 

“You’re the most interesting thing in this town,” Sherlock said. 

John swallowed. “How could you know that? The only thing you know about me is where I live, what school I go to, what car I drive, and that I used to have a crush on my sister’s girlfriend.” 

“And that you’re friends with Mike, you want to be a doctor, your father’s an alcoholic. You’re on the rugby team,” he indicated John’s letter jacket, which was now draped over the headrest of the passenger seat. Harry had been right - he really hadn’t needed it. "You often ride your bicycle around town instead of your car, though honestly you prefer to walk. That limp of your’s that you do your best to hide is psychosomatic and,” Sherlock smiled here, “you hate that everyone seems interested in you now, just because you got stabbed trying to save a boy’s life, and you think that’s why I’m interested in you.” 

John knew he should ask how Sherlock knew about his bike, but something else slipped out instead.“Isn’t it?” John said, his voice coming out rougher and more insecure than he’d hoped it would. 

Sherlock’s eyes flickered over John’s face and his smile widened. “It was,” Sherlock said, then he opened the car door and got out. John watched after him until Sherlock was across the yard and in the house. After a few more minutes of pondering how this had become his life, he glanced in the mirror, pulled out onto the rode, then drove home feeling more confused than before he’d asked.


	5. Chapter 5

It wasn't long before they made plans for the next date. The group of them went out to eat a couple times around town, and then, the following, Sherlock suggested they go to a club for homophiles. He knew the woman, Emma Hudson, who owned the place. John instantly felt unease.

“Oh?” John had asked, searching for more information about Sherlock. “Go there often?” 

“Her husband got himself sentenced to death and I was able to help out,” Sherlock explained, expertly avoiding the question. 

“You stopped her husband being executed?” John said, falling for Sherlock's redirection. 

“Noope," Sherlock said, turning a smile to John. "I ensured it.” 

The club didn’t have a name. It looked like an apartment building with 221B on the door in gold. 

There were butterflies in John's stomach again and he was starting to think he should start charging them rent. The club Sherlock was talking about was in the next town over. The entrance was hidden in a dark alley and there were broad shouldered, big armed men standing outside. 

"Sherlock! Good to see you've finally brought someone!" One of the men said. "Come in, come in!" 

There were women and men dancing everywhere, pairs of the same sex with their arms around each other and tongues tangled. Harry and Clara raced past John and Sherlock and immediately started dancing to the rock 'n' roll music, looks of sheer joy on their faces as they clung openly to one another. 

John and Sherlock went to the bar and ordered four cokes, then Sherlock led the way to an empty booth. John slid into the rounded booth and Sherlock followed him in, moving in close, though John had to admit the booth wasn't that big. They'd have to squeeze to fit all four of them. 

"Overwhelmed?" Sherlock asked after a long moment of silence. He sipped his coke from a straw and raised an eyebrow at John. 

"No," John shook his head. "It's just... I never knew there were so many..." he scratched his eyebrow. "I must sound like a total idiot." 

Sherlock gave a small smile. "You're not an idiot. Harry is lucky to have you. Clara, too. You've always been there for them. Even though some people think that how they feel about each other is wrong because of their gender, you don't care. You just want them to be happy." 

"What about you?" John asked as quietly as he could while still being able to be heard over the music. "Does your family care?" 

"If I had feelings for a man, Mycroft wouldn't care and my parents would throw a party." 

John frowned at that. "Have you ever had feelings for someone?" John asked. He meant for it to be an innocent question to fill in the silence, but he found that he really wanted to know. 

Sherlock chuckled. "Are you writing a book?" 

Sherlock's laughter was warm in John's ear and it made him realize just how close he'd John leaned toward Sherlock in a bid to hear him better. He leaned back and shook his head. "I'm just curious." 

Sherlock shrugged and looked at the dance floor. "Only once and not for long." 

The expression on Sherlock's face made John feel awful for bringing it up. He was relieved when Harry and Clara stopped at the table to drink deeply from their sodas, but they were gone just as quickly, leaving John to search for something to occupy his time with, because opening his mouth only ever dug him into a deeper hole with Sherlock. 

John looked around the dance floor and he saw two men, a brunette and a redhead, swapping spit as they danced, holding onto each other's shoulders. John could see an army tattoo peeking out from underneath the darker-haired man's shirt sleeve. He blushed and turned away to find Sherlock watching him closely. 

"Does that make you uncomfortable?" Sherlock asked, looking curious. 

John shook his head, feeling the blush colouring his cheeks. "I'm just not used to it, and I don't stare at people when they're kissing, like _some_ people." 

Sherlock laughed lightly. "Does it make you uncomfortable that I watch?" 

"Kind of, yeah. Why do you?" 

"Like I said before, you can learn a lot from watching people." 

John giggled. "Are you taking necking tips?" 

"Taking tips would mean I was intending to put them to use," Sherlock said straight-facedly. 

John glanced away, then back at Sherlock. He turned away, bit the inside of his lip before finding his eyes dragged right back to him. "Have you ever kissed someone?" 

"No," Sherlock said simply. 

"No?" 

"No." 

John nodded. "And you don't plan to?" 

Sherlock picked up his Coke and took a drink, then slipped out of the booth. "Would you like to dance?" 

John's mouth fell open in surprise and he closed it quickly. "Um... really?" 

"Yes, really." 

"I didn't peg you as someone that danced," he admitted. 

Sherlock didn't respond to that. 

John opened his mouth to ask why, then changed his mind. "You're an odd ball, you know that?" John said, but he found himself climbing out of the booth anyway. 

John himself wasn't one for dancing, either, and he felt like his walking was jilted as he walked toward the dance floor. Clara saw them take the dance floor and she grinned brightly and waved, which drew Harry's attention to them, too. Looking there way, Harry simply laughed at them and picked Clara up to spin her around the dance floor, making her giggle and hold the white mesh hair band to her head to keep it in place. 

Sherlock and John looked at each other for an awkward amount of time before they began shuffling to the music. When 'Blue Suede Shoes' came on, they shuffled a little faster as they were being jostled about by the people around them. Feeling sticky from all the body heat in the room but actually finding he was having fun, John caught sight of Harry and saw she was grinning at him with a knowing look on her face. John felt a blush burn his cheeks and looked quickly away. 

After Carl Perkins, Billy Haley & His Comets's 'Rock Around the Clock' made them rattle their heads around, Elvis's 'Hound Dog' had Sherlock and Harry shouting the lyrics back and forth at each other. The fact that John’s leg wasn’t twinging in pain escaped his notice as he and Sherlock danced around each other, holding each other’s gazes and laughing as the people around them danced silly and free to 'Shake, Rattle, and Roll'. 

When 'Why Do Fools Fall in Love' came on, John swallowed thickly as everyone began to slow dance. He looked up at Sherlock with his stomach twisting and Sherlock didn’t look away when their eyes met. John couldn't bring himself to move away, even when Sherlock was bumped closer. Tentatively, Sherlock's hands came up to settle on John's ribcage, then his fingers pressed into his shirt as he held on. 

A shaky breath escaped John and he closed his eyes as he took the final step that brought him and Sherlock chest-to-chest. John cupped Sherlock's hipbones and his fingers vanished underneath the hem of Sherlock's leather jacket. He could feel the warmth of Sherlock's skin under his hands and he struggled to focus on the music when all he could think about was how soft Sherlock’s skin was, how warm. Soon they began to sway to the music. 

John wondered if Sherlock could feel his heart racing, because to him, it felt like it was going to explode. Sherlock was too tall for John to tell if he was affecting him like Sherlock was him. Sherlock's cheek was just shy of touching his temple. In his clothes, John could smell tobacco smoke, brylcreem, and a spicy cologne that made John's mouth water, and, of course, the smell of chocolate taffy - Sherlock seemed to always have a piece. John found himself wishing he'd put on a nice cologne and not just his Stopette anti-perspirant. 

As the song came to an end, Sherlock didn't pull away, so John didn't, either. He kept his hands loose, giving Sherlock the option to go, but Sherlock stayed close as The Flamingos started singing, 'I Only Have Eyes For You'. 

It was Harry and Clara walking off the dance floor that finally pulled them apart many songs later and John and Sherlock followed them to the table. 

"So... Clara and I are completely wiped," Harry said, her face flushed as she used an ice cube from her drink to trace her skin. 

"Ready to go?" John asked, a little breathless from all the dancing. 

"Can you drop us off at Clara's? I told mum I was staying the night. She hates going to church with her parents." 

John turned to Sherlock, trying to keep the fluttering in his belly at a minimum as he met his eyes. "You okay with that?" 

Sherlock nodded and they all slid out of the booth. 

John twiddled his thumbs on the steering wheel and resisted looking at Sherlock in the rearview mirror as he drove the girls to Clara's. Once they got to her's, John kissed her on the cheek like he was dropping her off after a date - which he kind of was - then Harry and Clara hopped out of the car. They waved enthusiastically before slipping inside, each girl carrying her shoes, one in each hand. 

John finally looked at Sherlock in the rearview mirror. "You can come up here if you want." 

The seat groaned as Sherlock got out to circle around the car and John took a deep, steadying breath before the door opened and Sherlock slid into the passenger seat. 

* * *

As he drove, John worried the inside of his lip. His fingers were tingling with the memory of Sherlock's warmth and he wondered if Sherlock could still feel his hands where they'd slipped to his lower back and held him close. He’d been embarrassed when his palms had begun to sweat, but Sherlock never pulled away. If anything, he swore the greaser had only moved closer. 

When John pulled his Oldsmobile up at the curb outside Sherlock’s house, he drummed his fingers nervously on the steering wheel. 

"Do you want to come in?" Sherlock asked. 

John glanced over at him, not sure if that was the greatest idea, but his curiosity was too extreme, so he said, "yeah. Sure." Then he shut off the engine and he and Sherlock got out of the car. 

"I was starting to think you really lived in Angelo's and not here," John said, smiling jokingly at Sherlock. 

"Most of the time I'd prefer that was the case." 

John pressed his lips together, deciding not to talk ever again, and stood back as Sherlock unlocked the front door. Most of the lights were off when they got inside. John toed off his shoes automatically and followed Sherlock up the stairs to the top floor. He felt like he was breaking into someone's house, it was that nice inside. 

The house looked exactly how John had thought it would: Checkered black and white tiles, wood paneling, and sparkling crystal chandeliers. Sherlock kept his eyes ahead, ignoring the warm glow of the single chandelier clearly left on for him. 

Sherlock paused in front of a bedroom door to wait for John to stop looking around and finally catch up, and then he pushed it open for him. The room was as sparse as John should have expected, considering Sherlock didn’t like staying there. The double bed had a mahogany head and footboard and a red blanket, the floor was covered in dark brown carpet, and the walls were a light cream color. 

John glanced at the framed periodic table, then looked over at Sherlock, who stood just inside the closed door. "Mike mentioned meeting you in the science lab. Is that what you want to be, a scientist?" 

Sherlock nodded. "I like doing experiments and collecting data, but I also like solving crimes." 

John cast him a smile before walking over to the bookcase and scanning the titles. Most of them had to do with criminals, science, and psychological studies. "I saw you with a man the other day, late 20's or so. Was he one of the cops you consult with?" 

"Lestrade," Sherlock confirmed. "He hasn't had anything over a 7 in weeks," he said a bit petulantly. 

John nodded. "So, since you didn't have a good case, you decided to fake date my sister instead?" 

That made Sherlock laugh. He flashed a quick smile and shook his head. "Go on, then. Ask what it is you're working up to." 

"What do you and my sister do on your 'dates'?" 

"Mostly," Sherlock said with a smile, "we talk about you." 

"Me?" John said, pausing in his perusing of the books to gape at Sherlock. "Why me?" 

"Because your sister has it in her head that I have a crush on you and that you just might feel the same way." 

Sherlock's eyes on him were intense and John swallowed hard. He was about to do something stupid, like ask Sherlock if Harry was right, when Sherlock turned and opened the door to reveal a heavyset young man on the other side. 

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock snapped. 

"Mummy was wondering if your friend was planning on sleeping over, because if so, then perhaps he should call home before it's after midnight." 

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at John and John shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. "Sure." 

Sherlock turned back to his brother. "You took my cigarettes, Mycroft. I want them back." 

The young man smiled dryly and produced a pack of cigarettes from his house coat. 

"Those are not my cigarettes," Sherlock said. "You know that. Mine are Pall Malls and those are Encores - they certainly didn't deserve on," he remarked to John over his shoulder. "They're low tar," he said with disgust to his brother. 

John giggled and they both shot him a glare. "What? You two are hilarious." 

"The only thing funny about Mycroft is his ever-expanding waistband. Now give me my cigarettes." 

Mycroft sighed and handed Sherlock a battered pack of Pall Malls. Sherlock shoved the Encores out the door and slammed it in his brother's face, then proceeded to toss the pack of cigarettes onto his bedside table before heading over to the cupboard. "There's a telephone in the hall on the way to the bathroom," he said as he rifled through his clothes. He pulled out a pair of striped silky blue pyjama trousers and a white t-shirt and handed them to John. "The bathroom is the fourth door on the left." 

John nodded, took the clothes, then headed out of the room and down the hall. He called his mum first to let her know he would be home, then he went into the bathroom to change. When he got to Sherlock's bedroom, Sherlock was wearing a pair of silky red pyjama trousers and a black t-shirt. John felt his cheeks heat and he stood awkwardly in the doorway. 

Sherlock tossed his pile of clothes into the laundry hamper and hung his leather jacket on a hanger on the back of the door. "You don't have to sleep beside me if it would make you uncomfortable," he said, glancing at John as he crossed the room and slid in underneath the blankets. He pulled a black bandana covered in white skulls out from his bedside table and tied it over his slicked back curls. "Though, you didn't seem to have a problem being close to me earlier." 

John blushed. “Alright,” he said. He flicked off the light switch and circled around to the other side of the bed, climbed in underneath the blankets, and laid his head down on a soft pillow. 

Sherlock was a pleasant warmth at his side and John felt his pulse pick up when Sherlock shifted and his hand brushed against John's before slipping away. John felt like it was impossible for Sherlock not to hear the thundering of his heart in the darkness, but Sherlock seemed not to notice. 

John wasn’t sure if he was awake or asleep when he heard Sherlock calling his name. “John?” Sherlock said softly, shifting to face him in the dark. 

"Hm?" 

That’s the last thing John remembered before he opened his eyes and the cream colored curtains looked golden. He swore he could feel the lingering warmth of a hand loosely circled around his wrist, but the bed was empty. A scribbled note lay resting on Sherlock’s pillow and John picked it up. 

_Lestrade called with a case. Mother made breakfast. Next date Tuesday at 7? Bowling? If so, tell Harry. You snore. -SH_

John giggled and lay back down. He pulled the blankets up over his head and the faint smell of cigarettes and the spice of Sherlock’s cologne filled his nostrils as he drifted off back to sleep, a smile ghosting his lips.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This is where the story starts to get a little more graphic, and definitely not in the sexy sense.
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter was beta'd by the lovely butterbly! :D

When John woke up again, the room was cast in filtered afternoon light and the bed beside him was no longer warm. He sat up and rubbed at his eyes before pushing the blanket aside and climbing out from underneath it. He made the bed, smoothing out the wrinkles he and Sherlock had made in the cloth and fluffed out the pillows, smelling Sherlock heavily on each. He then switched Sherlock’s pyjamas for his clothes from the night before and folded the silky bottoms and cotton top. He placed the neat pile atop the bed where he’d previously been sleeping.

John felt far too loud as he walked on tenterhooks down the stairs to the foyer, but the house seemed vacant. John wondered if this was why Sherlock didn’t like being here; if it was too bloody quiet; if Sherlock felt lonely in the too big house with the glittering crystal chandeliers and the sound of echoing footsteps. 

John could smell bacon on the air and his mouth watered as his stomach growled - he followed the scent to the kitchen. John felt again like a thief in the night as he stacked the glistening bacon, sausage links, and honey-covered biscuits on his plate. The white plate had a wavy trim of gold and he wondered if it was simply gold-leaf or the real thing as he poured himself a glass of cranberry juice. He carried them carefully to the nearest archway and peeked around the corner into a big, empty dining room. 

The large mahogany table looked large enough to seat 20 plus people and John took the chair farthest from the window so he could look out at the trees rustling in a gentle breeze as he ate. The china and crystal clicking on the table sounding too loud in the room, as did the chair as he pulled it back. As he sat, his eyes landed on the man from the night before seated directly across him at the other end of the long table - he hadn't noticed him there before. 

John tucked a deep red napkin into his collar, picked up a fork, and cleared his throat. “Good morning.” 

“I see that you slept through the night,” Mycroft said. He speared a sausage link and fit half of it into his mouth. 

John bit off the tip of his sausage link and chewed. 

“You’ve probably guessed that my brother doesn’t allow just anyone over,” Mycroft said after he finished chewing and swallowed. “And certainly never into his room. In fact, you’re the second.” 

“And the first?” John asked, and he tried not to show it as he chided himself for giving Mycroft exactly what it was he was clearly looking for. 

Mycroft smiled and dabbed at his lips with a napkin that matched John’s. “Sherlock knows better now.” 

John struggled to swallow his food, so he raised the crystal glass, which also bore a gold trim, and took a large gulp to force it down. 

“Or so I thought,” Mycroft stated with a raised eyebrow, then he brought a piece of bacon to his lips. John clenched his jaw and Mycroft smirked before taking a bite. 

“And you’re on a diet,” a familiar voice said. John looked up to find Sherlock standing in the archway. He had his hands tucked into his leather jacket and his eyes were positively fiery as he glared at his brother. “Or so I thought.” 

John hid his grin behind a buttery, honey-drizzled biscuit. 

Mycroft stood, lifting his empty plate and glass as he did so. “And I thought you were quitting smoking.” Mycroft’s eyes flicked to John, then back to Sherlock. “I wonder why.” 

Sherlock growled as his brother passed him into the kitchen and John couldn’t help but giggle. “You two are worse than me and my sister,” he laughed. 

Sherlock turned his glare on John, then he tilted his head, his mouth quirking up at the corner. “You slept through the night,” Sherlock said, sounding pleased. 

John nodded and bit into his biscuit. “It was like I was sleeping on a cloud,” he said, only kind of lying. The bed had been bloody soft, but the warmth of Sherlock next to him had been the real catalyst into unconsciousness. 

“What about you?” he asked. He looked down at his plate as he stabbed his last sausage link and brought it to his mouth. Sherlock was studying him when he looked back up, something unreadable in his eyes. 

“I might have slept better had you not been snoring in my ear all night,” Sherlock said. His eyes went to John’s plate and John had the unmistakable feeling that Sherlock was avoiding his gaze. “Finish that up and meet me in the shed out back; there’s something I would like you to take a look at,” Sherlock requested, before slipping out of the room without another word. 

* * *

John finished eating quickly, then went out the side door in the kitchen and walked to the backyard, nervous excitement flitting around in his belly. He was surprised to find that the shed looked like an actual shed; small and rickety - the complete opposite of the main house. He knocked on the door and it flew open under his fist to reveal Sherlock wearing a wine purple t-shirt and black jeans. John swallowed and the butterflies in his stomach fluttered their approval. 

“Finally,” Sherlock expelled, sounding exasperated as he turned his back and walked toward a table lit by a single lamp. It was the only light in the room, which was odd, considering John had seen small square windows just underneath the roof. He suspected they were covered over to black out the small room. 

“What? I need to eat,” John informed Sherlock as he glanced around the room. “Are you telling me you don’t?” he asked, turning back to Sherlock and eyeing his thin wrists before Sherlock tugged on a pair of bright yellow gloves that reached halfway up his forearms. 

“Not during a case,” Sherlock said. “Come here.” 

John walked closer and regretted it immediately upon seeing the pictures laid out on the chrome table top. “Jesus,” John muttered, then quickly covered his mouth. His father would knock him over if he heard such a thing fall from John’s lips. It had happened before, and John would never let them slip in front of him again. 

Captured in each shiny square were various pictures of two men. At first, the pictures focused on a brown-haired man wearing a graying white shirt and a pair of faded blue jeans. Then the pictures switched to that of a man with red hair wearing a pair of black slacks and a plaid orange and red button-up shirt. As the pictures moved away, it was revealed they were laying side-by-side and their hands were clasped with each other's. The darker-haired man’s head was lolled to the side and he was facing the redhead. Blood was spilled out from between his lips and his head rested in the pool of it, his brown hair soaked black on one side. His other arm was crossed over his chest, resting over his heart where a stain of red bloomed. The redhead’s chest wound was left uncovered and John stared in shock at the empty cavity where the man’s heart once was. 

John looked quickly away. “Why are you showing me this?” he asked, his voice defiantly trembling. He clenched his jaw and looked back at the images. 

“Do you not recognize them?” 

John frowned, his stomach twisting; he felt like he might get sick. He didn’t understand how Sherlock expected him to recognize these men when their faces were so... 

A grunt of surprise escaped as John recognized the tattoo on the brunette’s right bicep. 

“The couple from the club,” he breathed. “The ones you were watching...” John stepped back, feeling light-headed. “That was last night.” John shook his head in horror and disbelief. “We saw them last night, Sherlock. Jesus! We... my sister, Clara! We were right there!” 

“Calm down, John,” Sherlock said, watching him from the table. 

“Calm down? Calm down?! Sherlock, that could have been-” 

“But it wasn’t,” Sherlock said, speaking gently as if to a wild animal. He rose from his chair and stood in front of John. He cupped John’s elbows and held them like John were made of glass. “It wasn’t, John.” 

With Sherlock’s hands on him, John became suddenly aware that he was shaking. He flinched back, removing himself from Sherlock’s touch and pointing a finger at him. “Don’t touch me,” he said, the words nearly a whisper as he gasped. The look of surprise on Sherlock's face was the last thing he saw before he turned and fled the shed. 

The sun was painfully bright as John shoved his way through the shed door. He blinked away the spots as he hurried across the grass, his left leg giving a painful twinge with each step. Fumbling for his keys, he slid into his car and quickly shoved them into the ignition. In his rearview mirror, he just barely caught a glimpse of Sherlock standing in the backyard watching him leave before he took a sharp turn at the end of Montague street. 

* * *

John’s father made him work for his date money, so he worked at the bowling alley when he could. That night, John was relieved to be somewhere other than alone with his thoughts, but, as with all things, his relief didn’t last long. 

John always hated when the bowling alley hosted birthday parties, because they always left a big mess in their wake. At the moment, he was on his hands and knees, scrubbing at a stain on the floor where someone had dropped a piece of cake and seemingly continued to walk right through it; there were footsteps that smelt like maraschino cherry nut cake, one of his mum's favorites, decorating the carpet. John had already deposited the remainders of the crumbly cake in a bin and now he was still scrubbing away at it as a group of upper sixth-form boys sat down at lane 7 nearby. He ignored them as they began withdrawing their bowling balls from their carriers and lacing on their personalized shoes - their names were written in curly lettering along the outer-side of the bright red and white leather. John grimaced as he recognized one of the boys as Sebastian Wilkes. 

Sebastian Wilkes was stuck up. He was one of those boys that thought he was better than the small town he was raised in. He traveled often and, when he came back, he told tales of his travels to anyone who would listen -- everyone wanted to listen to Sebastian Wilkes. Or almost everyone, it seemed, besides John, because Sebastian was rich and older, and he got to see the world outside of their nowheresville town. 

Upon returning to school, Sebastian had stopped John in the hallway and looked down at him with an expression that was playing at pity. However, it was anything but. “I heard you were in an accident,” Sebastian had said, his gaggle of friends standing close behind him and listening on as their lord and savior spoke. “You should be more careful next time, Johnny. You mess with the big dogs and you’re bound to get your tail nipped.” As Sebastian had walked away, his friends had followed, snapping their teeth at John as they passed him by and laughing like hyenas. 

John began scrubbing at the stains vigorously, despite the burning pain in his shoulder, but it was all for naught as he heard one of the boys take notice of him on all fours. 

“Oh, isn’t he cute?” the boy said. “Daddy, can I keep him?” 

John kept his head down, his cheeks on fire, and did his best to ignore them. He did a good job of it, too, managing to get half of the cake smudge scrubbed away, before Sebastian Wilkes spoke. 

“So, John, I hear you’ve been hanging out with that Holmes freak,” Sebastian prompted. 

John's leg twinged and he ignored that, too, dipping the dishtowel into the soap-water bucket beside him, squeezing it out, then dipping it in again before he sloshed it onto the floor and began scrubbing some more. 

“The pillow-biter?” the boy from before said. 

John sat back on his heels and pointed the hand holding the dirty cloth at the boy who’d spoken. “Shut your lips.” 

“What did you say?” the boy said, looking astonished by the fact that John had spoken. 

“I said cut the gas!” John snapped. 

“Or what? You’ll run home to your wittle boyfwend?” 

John threw down the rag and got to his feet quickly. He had the boy’s shirt fisted in his hands in seconds and he was absolutely seething as he slammed the boy back against the chair he was in. “Shut the hell up!” 

“No, Sherlock’s not his boyfriend,” Sebastian said coolly, unphased by John's reaction. “What could a guy like Sherlock possibly see in a guy like him?” He leaned forward and gripped John’s injured shoulder hard, making him cry out. John gritted his teeth as Sebastian leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “Sherlock likes being treated like dirt, Johnny. He gets off on it; that, and his little crime scenes. Has he shown you yet? Have you seen how twisted that little freak is?” 

John’s mind went blank and Mycroft’s words from earlier that day came flooding back to him: _In fact, you’re the second._

Sebastian released him and stepped back. There was a pleased smirk on his smarmy face. 

“John, let that boy go!” John’s boss called out, finally noticing the whole scene. But John couldn’t bring himself to pull back. He wanted to grab Sebastian around the neck and squeeze until his face turned blue, and holding onto Sebastian’s mouthy friend’s shirt was the only thing keeping him from doing just that. 

John was jerked back by his t-shirt and the kid’s shirt tore out of his hands. Flyaway brows furrowed, John’s boss lead him away and didn’t stop until they were at the door to the backroom. 

“If I didn’t know you better, John, I would throw you out the door and never think twice about it,” his boss said. He clapped John on the shoulder - his good one, thank god, as the man's fingers were remarkably strong - and gave a gentle squeeze. “But I do know you, and I know that you’re a good kid, so I want to believe that this will never happen again.” He gave John’s shoulder another squeeze and released him without relieving John of his intense gaze. “You need to learn how to tuck your tail between your legs, kiddo. When you do, I will give you a second chance.” He gave John a little push into the backroom. “Now go home and think real hard on why that just happened and fix it, because I don’t want to see a good kid like you doing stupid things like that, you hear? You don’t hurt people, remember? You want to be a doctor, right?” his bosses peppered brows raised in question. “What do doctors do?” 

His boss left John standing just inside the back room with the question throbbing loudly in his ears. It continued to throb, incessantly, until he laid down to go to bed that night and he finally had the chance to hear it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter beta'd by butterbly! :D

On Monday, John could feel people watching him as he walked through the halls at school, but he could tell it was for a whole different reason than curiosity about his accident. He was holding his schoolbooks tightly to his side with one arm and had his other hand balled in his pocket with his eyes cast downward to avoid the gazes around him when he heard someone call out to him.

“Hey John,” he heard to his right, and an arm slipped into the crook of his. He smiled and looked down the scant inch at Clara, relieved to have something to take his focus off the people staring. 

“Hey,” he replied. “How’s it going?” 

“Good,” she said with a silly smile on her face. 

John scrunched his face and studied her’s suspiciously. “What are you up to?” 

“Okay, so, you know how we’re supposed to be going bowling for our next date?” 

John nodded slowly, slightly dreading the fact after what had happened the other night. “Yeah...?” 

“Well, Sarah just told me that everyone’s going to go to the roller rink this Friday and I was wondering if you wanted to do that, instead, because,” and here she lowered her voice, leaning close to whisper in his ear, “Harry says your parents are driving to the Safeway on Wednesday and that’s going to be an all day trip, so we thought we would watch some television at your guys’ house that day,” Clara said. She didn’t say, ‘if you know what I mean’ like Harry would, flashing him a suggestive wink, but he still knew what she meant. She simply leaned back and looked at him hopefully. 

John frowned. He didn’t know how to roller skate. The image of Sherlock on roller skates, however, wiped the frown away. “Sure thing, Clara. Make sure you tell Sherlock there’s been a change in plans, though.” 

“I’ve got to get to class,” Clara told him. “I have to finish memorizing my essay for a presentation. Sherlock would be more likely to agree to it if you asked, anyway,” she added before heading quickly away. 

“What does that mean?” he called after her, but she’d already slipped through the door to her history class. 

“So things are going well with you and Clara, then?” Mike asked, showing up out of nowhere. He wore a cheeky smile. 

John rolled his eyes at him. “Hardee-har-har.” 

Mike grinned. “I see you’ve been spending some time with Sherlock. That’s good.” 

“Why’s that?” John asked as he stepped aside to let someone get passed. He glanced over at his friend and Mike shrugged, raising his shoulders to his ears. 

“I don’t think he has many friends,” he said. “And you’re a great guy. He’s lucky to have you as a friend.” 

John bit down on the inside of his cheek. He’d felt bad ever since storming out of Sherlock’s crime-solving shed and Mike’s words only helped him to feel even more so. He’d been wanting to apologize to Sherlock since the second he’d passed through the rickety shed door onto Sherlock’s back lawn. 

“I best be off,” Mike said, indicating the door to his arithmetic class with a tilt of his head. He clapped John on the back before heading inside. 

John made up his mind as he walked to gym class, his eyes facing straight ahead - he would apologize to Sherlock after school. 

* * *

He found Sherlock in the science lab. John noted that the greaser’s leather jacket was draped over the back of the yellow plastic chair behind him. His eyes roved over Sherlock, his pale skin. He was wearing a dark blue t-shirt with a pair of even darker blue jeans cuffed to above his ankles, revealing his black socks. Tucked into the cuff of his rolled up left shirt sleeve was a battered pack of cigarettes. His back was to John, giving John a good view of Sherlock’s arse and John blushed even as he took in the round curve of it. Sherlock had a nice arse - there simply was no denying that. 

“Can you sharpen this?” Sherlock asked, holding out a number 2 pencil. He didn’t look up, keeping his eyes glued on whatever he was looking at through the microscope. 

John stifled a sigh; he’d wanted to take Sherlock by surprise, not the other way around. He plucked the pencil from Sherlock’s long fingers and brought it to the sharpener bolted to the wall. He wondered, as he sharpened it, if Sherlock had ever drawn designs on him. He also wondered when he’d started caring about such things. 

“Here,” John said, holding the pencil out. Sherlock glanced up and there was shame on his face when he met John’s eye for a fraction of a second before quickly looking away. 

John dropped the pencil on the table - Sherlock wasn’t reaching for it, anyway - and extended his hand towards Sherlock’s face. The bag under his right eye, the one with the brown freckle on the otherwise light blue iris, was a rich shade of purple and blue with a hint of black, there was a split in his eyebrow, and his bottom lip was swollen. 

“What happened?” John gasped. He almost touched the eyebrow wound, but Sherlock dropped his head to peer through the microscope, avoiding John’s gaze. 

“I... got in a fight.” 

“Who did this?” John asked through clenched teeth. 

Sherlock didn’t answer. His attention was trained through the lenses and his hands were toying with the knobs. His knuckles were puffy and red. John reached for them instinctively and curled his hand gently across Sherlock's left hand. 

“Sherlock, what happened?” 

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to John’s hand over his and he stayed there a moment before leaning back and pulling his away. “It doesn’t matter. It’s been taken care of,” Sherlock said. 

“What has?” 

Sherlock pressed his lips together, thinking over his words before he finally spoke. “I heard what my brother said to you and I saw what happened with Sebastian,” he said. 

“You were there?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock told him. “What did he say to you?” 

“Anderson?” John asked, playing dumb. He suddenly wished there was a teacher around, but the only other person in the room was a girl with long brown hair tied into a ponytail. She was wearing a white lab coat, thick white protective gloves, and a pair of clear goggles over her eyes as she measured out different colored liquids and carefully dripped them into a test tube. He was pretty sure she’d heard them by then. He hadn’t even noticed she was there before. He hoped she hadn't seen him looking Sherlock up. 

“Yes, John, Anderson.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “He’s thicker than a 4 quid milkshake. I meant Sebastian and you know that.” 

John glanced away. His eyes fell on the pencil. “He said you... get off on being treated like dirt.” 

Sherlock’s jaw clenched and his back straightened. John hadn’t realized how tall Sherlock really was. He could see a scab forming on the bottom of Sherlock’s chin when he held his head up like that. His gaze fixed on the wall past John’s head. 

“Sherlock, did he...” John’s eyes flitted to the girl and he lowered his voice conspicuously. “Did he hurt you?” 

“You mean besides doing this to my face?” Sherlock said, his eyes meeting John’s as he raised his scabbed eyebrow; but it was a rhetorical question and he went on to answer it himself. “Not in the way you mean,” Sherlock answered. His eyes flitted away from John’s, back to the wall. “Sebastian was the only person that ever treated me like I was special, like I mattered, but he was using me, and I didn’t know it. Not until my brother pointed it out to me. Sebastian was... pushy, though. He didn’t kiss me, but he did try to get me to have sex with him. I didn’t want any of that, though. It wasn’t about that for me. He made me feel good about myself and that was enough, and in return I did things for him.” 

“Like what?” John found himself asking, a bit too loudly in the large science room. If Sherlock didn't care about the girl overhearing, then neither did he. 

“I did his homework for him, for one thing. He also had me deducing things about people and he would use it to blackmail them; for money, for information, things like that. I knew it was wrong, but I didn’t care, because he showed me attention when I had thought I was invisible.” 

There was a sick feeling in John’s belly. It was anger and disgust, but most of all, it was pain for Sherlock and what he’d gone through. He wished he could have been there. 

“Well,” John said, his voice sounding rough. He cleared his throat. “In case you didn’t realize, I think you’re a really cool cat and anyone who thinks otherwise must be out of orbit.” 

A warm smile shyly revealed itself on Sherlock’s face and it occurred to John that he’d never seen the greaser look so happy before. “Do you really mean that?” Sherlock asked. 

“You’re smart, Sherlock; work it out for yourself,” John said with a matching smile. 

Sherlock chuckled and the sound made the butterflies that had taken up residence in John’s belly begin battering around again. 

“So, Clara and Harry can’t do bowling on Wednesday,” John said once he’d realized he’d been looking at Sherlock’s smiling face for much too long. “But they’re really wanting to go to the roller rink this weekend. I guess it’s going to be fat city or something, and I think it would be cool if you made the scene with us.” 

“I have never worn roller skates in my life,” Sherlock told him. 

John grinned. “Good. Me neither.” 

“Well, I’m not looking to get beat up by your sister, too, so it’s a sure thing - I’ll be there,” Sherlock said. 

“I never pegged you as one for hiney-biting.” 

Sherlock laughed. “I’m not normally, but your sister really packs a punch.” 

John cracked up. “You really shouldn’t say that when you look like that,” John said, pointing at Sherlock’s colourful bruises. 

Realization dawned on Sherlock’s face and John burst out laughing, Sherlock’s distinct, deep laugh echoing his. He didn’t stop laughing until the science teacher, Mr. Hope, entered the room wearing his two-coloured grey collared zip-up and a plaid Newsboy hat. John sobered instantly. The teacher gave him the creeps. 

He hastily wiped the tears from his eyes. “Hello, Mr. Hope,” John said. He turned to Sherlock and tried to keep from giggling when Sherlock quirked a smile at him. “See you Friday, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock nodded and John nodded back before turning and leaving the classroom. He wondered if Sherlock watched him go. He hoped so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drawing designs - Checking someone out  
> Cat - Guy; For beats - A hip person  
> In orbit - In the know, Out of orbit - out of the loop  
> Fat city - A great thing or place; Happy  
> Make the scene - Attend an event or activity  
> Hiney biting - Sucking up


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock arrived early on Friday night. Harry was nowhere near done maintaining her hair. John’s mum let him into the house, smiling warmly in greeting at Sherlock with a partly peeled carrot in her hand.

“You look rather dashing,” she said as she stepped aside to let him in. She did not remark on the yellowing bruise around Sherlock’s eye, of which John was grateful. 

John glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock and a sudden warmth heated his skin. Sherlock was wearing a red plaid shirt with black stripes. It was buttoned up to two buttons short of the collar and a black t-shirt was just barely visible at the top. He also wore a pair of rich blue jeans that looked new and hugged his long legs spectacularly. Sherlock did look dashing. Not only that, but he also looked approachable with a hint of colour tinting his cheeks at the compliment. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Watson. You look lovely as always,” Sherlock said with a warm smile. There was a bashfulness to the way Sherlock dropped his eyes that made John smile, too. 

From where he sat in his armchair nursing a beer in front of the telly, John’s father snorted a laugh. His head lolled drunkenly on the headrest. “Tryna get inta her good graces, hmm? Tryna get inta our Harriet’s knickers?” 

John put down the peeler and the potato he’d been stripping and quickly rinsed his hands. “Sherlock, would you like to see my new ant farm?” 

“I would,” Sherlock said. John dried his hands quickly on a hand towel and lead the way to his room. He pushed open the door and closed it with a click once they were both inside. “I’m sorry about that,” he said, leaning against the door and dropping his head back against the wood. 

“You have no reason to apologize,” Sherlock said. 

John looked at Sherlock, who was walking around his room looking at the books on his bookshelf and the few items adorning his dresser. John’s room lacked the clutter he saw in his mates’ rooms. 

Sherlock opened the cupboard door and peered in at John’s clothes, made a thoughtful noise, then closed it. He couldn’t tell if Sherlock was purposefully avoiding his eyes or not, but he was quickly distracted by the thought when Sherlock sat down facing him on the foot of his bed. He leaned back on his hands and stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. 

“Is blue your favorite color or do you just wear it because it brings out your eyes? You’ve worn it on every one of these double dates, but you have plenty of clothing that isn’t blue in there, as well.” 

John frowned and looked down at the blue striped sweater vest he wore over a pale blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with blue?” 

“Not one single thing,” Sherlock said. 

John glanced up and the look he saw in Sherlock’s eyes caused a fluttering in his belly. “Umm... I... uh... do you like ants?” John asked, changing the subject by pointing at the ant farm on top of his dresser. “I found a queen yesterday.” 

“Yes, but I’m more interested in beetles at the moment,” Sherlock said. “For a case,” he explained with an amused smile pushing up the corner of his mouth. The smirk looked mischievous. John vaguely remembered something else with beetles and his mouth fell open. 

“That was you that put the beetles in Mr. Gill’s sandwich, wasn’t it?” 

Sherlock’s smirk turned into a grin. “He was being annoying,” Sherlock said. 

A laugh bubbled out of John and he grinned at Sherlock. “You are...” John said between laughs, “the coolest.” 

Sherlock’s amused smile turned to something softer. It reminded John of the look on Sherlock’s face when he was trying to calm him down after showing him the pictures of the murdered couple. Death wasn’t something John wasn’t familiar with - he wanted to be a doctor, after all - but the sight of the men in those pictures had triggered a memory of the night he’d found Carl Powers and it had shocked his system. 

He couldn’t seem to shake this awful feeling of foreboding. 

“I can’t stop thinking about Carl Powers,” John admitted. 

Sherlock’s lounging figure became suddenly alert and he sat forward. “Oh, John,” Sherlock breathed, as if John’s words had triggered a forgotten memory. His eyes took on a faraway look and they glittered. “Oh...” 

“What is it?” John asked, crossing his arms. He hated feeling left out of the loop. 

“I need to use your telephone,” Sherlock said. 

“What’s going on?” 

“The Carl Powers case and the case with Michael Newburn and Andy Jessup are connected,” Sherlock told him quickly. 

“What?” John asked, his eyebrows bunched together. “How?” 

“I’m not sure,” Sherlock said, sounding pleased with that fact. “Your telephone, John.” 

“Yeah, okay. Wait here.” 

John quickly retrieved the light blue telephone from the kitchen counter and carried it carefully down the hallway, so as not to pull the cord from the wall. Sherlock was pacing when he got back to the room and he quickly put in a number when John handed over the phone. 

“Lestrade,” Sherlock said when the detective answered. “I need you to bring me the Carl Powers case files.” He waited a moment, then growled. “I need them tonight! Lives may depend on it!” Another pause and Sherlock smirked. “I will be at the roller skating rink.” There was a flare of noise on the other line and Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Hurry up with those files!” Sherlock said before hanging up. 

The sound of Harry’s door closing could be heard in the sudden silence and Sherlock smiled brightly and handed the telephone set back to John. “Ready?” 

* * *

Clara got white skates that matched the white poodle on her poodle skirt and Harry got black ones that went with the record on her’s. Sherlock also wore black skates that looked as shiny as his leather jacket. John got stuck with a pair of battered old brown ones, because they were out of the nice skates in his size. The roller skating rink was packed with teenagers that had gotten there first. 

He grumbled as he tried to tie his laces tightly. He groaned when one of them pulled apart. Harry laughed as he threw the frayed piece onto the carpet and made a small knot instead. 

“It was either those or the women’s, and at least you shouldn’t get blisters in those,” Clara tried to reassure him as she and Harry stepped out onto the rink. 

Sherlock, to John’s disappointment, had no trouble on the roller skates. John, on the other hand, did. His feet tried to slip right out from beneath him within his first tentative steps wearing them and he would have face planted had it not been for Sherlock’s quick reflexes. He wrapped his arm around John’s waist and pulled John to him so that his arse was lined up with the front of Sherlock’s jeans. A blush instantly burned John’s cheeks. He could feel Sherlock through the denim. 

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked, his voice low and conspiratorial. No one, it seemed, had seen him almost fall - except Sherlock, of course. Clara and Harry were already skating away across the shiny roller skating rink, getting lost in the crowd. 

John quickly pulled himself out of Sherlock’s arm before anyone could see how close they stood, only to lose his footing once more as he jerked away. He ran in place, trying to catch his footing as he tipped forward with his hands windmilling and Sherlock caught him again, pulling John up until Sherlock was lined up perfectly behind him again. 

“Careful,” Sherlock said as he steadied John against him. 

The unique smell of Sherlock that John had come to know so well, thankfully minus the smell of tobacco, was strong and it affected John in an embarrassing way. His mouth watered at the spicy smell of his cologne and his legs felt even wobblier beneath him. John had to reach for the short wall circling the roller skating rink and pull himself to it to get out of Sherlock’s hold. 

“Perhaps you should wear the women’s skates,” Sherlock suggested. There was something strange in his voice that John couldn’t pinpoint. 

“These are fine,” John said, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze for more reasons than his embarrassment at almost falling twice already. He kept a hold of the wall as he stepped out onto the rink. Sherlock’s presence behind him was unmistakable; he could feel the warmth of Sherlock behind him like he could that night lying in Sherlock’s bed next to him. 

Harry came to an abrupt stop beside them and grinned. “Having trouble, Johnny?” 

“Go away,” he grumbled. 

“Here,” Clara said, coming up beside them. “You can hold my hand.” 

Clara’s brown eyes were reassuring as she looked at him and he slid his hand into her’s. 

It was awkward at first. The constant flow of people around him made it difficult for him to stay on his feet as he tried to avoid running into them. There were a couple of times that he managed not to fall and instead caught himself on the short, carpeted wall. Soon, though, he was gliding carefully beside Clara, pushing off in small steps. 

Sherlock and Harry, who’d circled the rink many times by this point, joined them. Realizing just how long he’d been clutching Clara’s hand, John tentatively let go. He was like a newborn foal managing to stand up on his own for the first time, his legs all wobbly. The familiar spikes of pain shot through his leg, trying to demobilize him, but he ignored them and began to skate on his own for the first time. 

Harry came up behind Clara. “Want to race?” 

Clara looked at John. “Are you alright on your own?” 

“I’ve got him,” Sherlock said. 

Harry smirked and she and Clara raced away; Clara’s long dark hair flowed behind her. 

“That girl has been glancing at you all night,” Sherlock told him after a while of skating in stilted silence. 

John glanced quickly in the direction Sherlock was hinting at and almost lost his footing. Sherlock caught his elbow to keep him from falling and John was able to regain his balance. 

“Mary.” 

“Hmm?” 

“She’s in my English class,” John said. “Mary Morstan.” 

Sherlock studied John’s face intensely, his eyes darting over John’s face like he was reading words from a page, then looked away without saying a word. 

“What?” John asked, his curiosity too much for him to keep silent. 

“You like her.” 

“Mary? She’s... she’s smart. Pretty, as you can see. Her eyes are really nice. And she’s not afraid to be funny.” 

“Then why haven’t you made your move on her?” Sherlock asked, looking over at him. There was a sharpness to his eyes that gave John goosepimples. 

He swallowed and looked away. That was a good question. One he didn’t think he could answer honestly. “I’m supposed to be dating Clara, remember?” he murmured, loud enough so that Sherlock could hear him over the music, but so that no one else could hear. 

Sherlock barked a laugh. “If she’s smart, then she already knows that’s all for show.” 

“What’s it matter to you?” John snapped defensively. Sherlock turned to face him and opened his mouth to speak. 

Then the room went dark and mirror lights began to spiral around them. 

The change took John by surprise and he fell to the floor, just barely managing to catch himself on his hands. A needle of pain shot up his leg and his grimaced. Sherlock came to a stop and glanced back. Seeing him cringing on his knees, he turned around to come back to him. As John glanced up at Sherlock, he couldn’t help but notice how gorgeous he looked under the glittering lights. 

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked. John could just make out the concerned look on his face among the bouncing lights and the shadows. 

“Yeah.” John cleared his throat. “Yes, I’m fine.” 

“Take my hand,” Sherlock said, reaching down his hand to John with his palm facing John and his fingers spread. 

John eyed it for a moment before he reached for it. 

Sherlock pulled him to his feet and John clung tightly to him to keep from bringing them both down. 

“They should give a warning or something before they do that,” John said, slightly breathless as his leg panged. “I could have busted out my kneecaps.” 

“Come on, John. You have to get back on the horse.” 

John groaned and began skating again. The warmth of Sherlock’s hand in his caused it to flood to other places, too. Sherlock didn’t seem to be showing any signs of planning to let go. Not knowing what he should do, John simply held on. 

“What are they doing?” Sherlock asked, looking confused. 

John followed Sherlock’s gaze and noticed for the first time that the music had changed. “They’re forming a conga line.” 

“Come on, boys,” Harry said as she skated up. “Put your hands on Clara’s hips,” she told John. Realizing he was still holding Sherlock’s hand, John blushed hotly and let go. He did as he was told and skated up behind Clara in the line and cupped her hips. Someone took a hold of his hips a moment later. 

“Make sure he doesn’t fall,” John heard Harry say. The hands on John’s hips flared, spreading wide to hold onto more of him, and tightened a little tighter. 

“What’s the point of this?” Sherlock asked from behind him. They all kicked out their legs, except for Sherlock and a taken-by-surprise John. 

“To have fun,” John explained. 

Sherlock’s thumbs pressed into the two dimples on John’s lower back and John missed the next kick. There was a gentle pressure from Sherlock's thumbs and John was almost certain he felt them moving in a circular motion. He missed the kick that followed and the next. He only managed to get two kicks in before the song ended and the lights came on. After making a quick excuse about fixing his laces, John skated off the rink and sat down. He was embarrassingly hard. 

“Excuse me,” someone said. 

John looked up at a man in what looked like his late 20’s with early greying hair. He looked familiar. He glanced down at the brown folder the man had in his hands and he realized why. “You’re Lestrade, right?” 

The man sighed. “You know, I’m beginning to think he deletes my name on purpose. My name’s Greg Lestrade. Are you John?” he asked, eyeballing John. The teenagers was relieved to have a table concealing his lap. 

“Yeah, that’s me. Sherlock’s out there,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the skating rink. He turned around and searched the crowd until he found Sherlock, who was sandwiched between Clara and Harry. The girls looked like they were up to something as they whispered behind their hands to him. 

“He looks like he’s enjoying himself,” Greg noted. “Is it alright if I leave these with you?” he asked, holding up the case file. 

“The Carl Powers case?” John asked, looking at the folder Greg held. 

Greg nodded. “I understand if you don’t want to,” he said. 

John wasn’t surprised that Greg had looked at the case and recognized his name. “No, it’s fine. I’m fine,” John said. He took the folder when Greg offered it and put it down on the table. “He’s really looking forward to getting a look at this. Thanks, mate.” 

“He’s like that sometimes. Make sure he doesn’t lose anything and... keep an eye on him, will you? Sherlock... he’s a great kid. One day, he may even grow up to be a good man.” Greg was looking at Sherlock on the roller skating rink as he said this. There was a mixture of sadness and warmth in the man’s eyes. 

“That’s what friends are for,” John said with an honest smile. 

Greg looked back at John and he smiled back. “It was good meeting you, John.” 

“You, too, Greg.” 

The man chuckled and headed for the door. Once he was gone, John turned back to the skating rink. Sherlock was headed his way. 

“Was that Lestrade?” Sherlock asked once he reached the dividing wall between them. 

John held up the folder. “He says don’t lose anything.” 

Sherlock scoffed, making John laugh. He walked off the skating rink and came around to sit down across from John, who slid the folder across the table. Sherlock laid his hand down on top of it and tapped his fingers on the cover. 

“Well, aren’t you going to take a look?” 

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asked. 

John nodded. “It’s about time Carl gets some peace.” 

Sherlock looked at John and the softness in his eyes made it clear to John that Sherlock knew what he really meant, that it was time they both got some peace. 

Sherlock nodded and opened the folder with an eager flourish.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta, Blythe, for sticking with me through my awful case of writer's block, as well as all of you! I hope you like this!

They were halfway through the most recent files when a very sexy female voice said, “Kate, will you grab me a refreshment, please?”

At the sound of her voice, John noticed Sherlock’s body tense and he lowered the cover over the files they were reading. He didn’t miss Sherlock carefully concealing a few photos beneath his arm. John frowned and turned to see who’d spoken. 

A girl wearing a white tank tucked into tight jeans under a leather jacket walked over to their table. She smiled with red painted lips and there was something off about the slant of her lips or the twinkle in her eyes; she looked too pleased for John’s comfort. 

“Hello, Sherlock,” she greeted coquettishly. 

“Irene,” Sherlock responded, barely casting a glance at her. 

Her smile widened when Sherlock failed to return the smile. “It’s simply been too long,” Irene said, and she placed her hand on Sherlock’s jacket sleeve. Her red nail polish looked like licorice. Her teeth look too shiny, John thought; he was trying to find something wrong with her and was coming up empty. She was beautiful. There was an unpleasant twist in John’s belly and he gripped his glass in his hand. 

Irene bent over and her barrel roll fringe brushed against Sherlock’s forehead as she got close. “How I’ve missed you,” she murmured into his ear, and the damp glass in John’s hand nearly slipped from his hand as she pressed her pretty red lips to Sherlock’s cheek. He set it down on the table too hard and he winced at the loud bang. 

Sherlock glanced over at him as Irene slowly withdrew and John cleared his throat. “I’m John, by the way. John Hamish Watson, if you were wondering.” 

“Hmm,” Irene purred. “I believe I’ve heard the name before.” 

From behind him, John heard footsteps. He turned to find Clara and Harry approaching. “After this song, there’s going to be a couple’s skate,” Clara said. “You coming?” she asked, offering up her hand to him. 

Irene’s eyes lit on Harry and Clara then, and her smile broadened even wider. She looked wickedly happy. “I thought the name rang a bell,” she laughed. “Turned to boys now, Harriet?” she wondered. “That’s a shame; I rather liked you.” 

John looked at Clara and it looked as if there was a roaring fire in her eyes. John stood up and took her hand. She squeezed it tight. “Alright, love,” John said, standing guard in front of her. He caught her gaze. “Ignore her,” he mouthed. He kissed her cheek and turned to Irene. “It was good meeting you,” he forced a smile, “but we best be off.” 

Irene rolled her eyes and turned to Sherlock. “I’m sure Jim would love to see you,” she said, tapping Sherlock’s leather sleeve with her shiny red nails. “He’ll be passing through any day now.” 

Sherlock looked up at Irene for the first time since she’d arrived and he smiled at her. He looked like a shark scenting blood. “And I would love to see him,” Sherlock claimed. The severity of his sharp eyes made John think otherwise. 

Irene trailed her finger up Sherlock’s sleeve and reached up to cover his light purple cheekbone with the palm of her hand. “I knew you’d look good in bruises,” she told him, brushing her thumb over the fading colour. “Maybe one day you’ll let me be the one to put them there.” 

John was clenching his jaw so hard he worried his teeth might shatter. When Irene finally pulled away from Sherlock, the girl named Kate came up beside her with a soda. Irene took the cup and tucked the straw between her lips. She took a small sip of her drink. 

“Thank you, Kate,” she said. She looked down at Sherlock, who hadn’t taken his eyes off of her the whole time. “I’ll be seeing you around, sexy.” Irene smiled at Sherlock then her eyes flicked over the standing trio. She flashed them a smirk and a wink, then turned on her heel and lead the way out the door, the redhead, Kate, striding out the door after her. 

Clara turned to Harry as soon as the door swung closed behind the girl and there was hurt in her eyes. “How could you?” she cried. “With her!” A pained sob escaped her throat and Clara yanked her hand from John’s to grab up her shoes. She made for the door quickly on her skates. 

“Clara! Wait!” Harry called, then went after her. 

John watched the door until it stopped swinging after them, then he went back to the table and began to unlace his skates. “So… Irene. Who’s she, exactly?” he asked, hoping he sounded nonchalant, even though he knew by now that Sherlock saw and heard everything. 

Sherlock looked up from the condensation on John’s milkshake glass and canted his head ever so slightly to the side. “You really would like to know, wouldn’t you?” 

John nodded and glanced over at Sherlock. “Yes. Definitely,” he said. He tugged off a roller skate and tucked the laces into the top. 

When he looked over at Sherlock, a smile grew on his friend’s face. “Someone who doesn’t matter anymore,” Sherlock told him, looking amused. 

“But she did once?” John asked, trying to make it sound like an innocent question. He was unmistakably jealous; there was really no way of hiding it from Sherlock, so he didn’t understand why he was even trying to. 

“Not enough to matter anymore,” Sherlock reiterated, his gaze intensifying. 

“Are you alright?” John asked, studying Sherlock closely. He looked… brighter somehow. His scrapes and bruises were well on their way to healed and barely showed in the dim light of the skating rink, but the light shadow they cast on Sherlock’s skin couldn’t hide the light in Sherlock’s eyes. There was a small smile hinting on Sherlock’s healing lips and John wanted to know every thought that was hidden behind it. 

“Yes,” Sherlock murmured. He stood up and shuffled the scattered files back into the folder. “I believe it’s time for you to be getting home,” he said. “Your sister will probably be staying out for the night. What is the phrase? ‘Kiss and makeup’?” 

John groaned. “They fight all the bloody time,” he complained. Just like his parents, John thought but didn’t say. 

“But they love each other?” 

John chuckled lightly. “Opposites attract, right?” he said as he tugged his penny loafers on. 

Sherlock smiled and quickly unlaced his skates with his long, elegant fingers. “That seems to be the case.” 

John watched Sherlock tuck his feet into his winklepickers with a small smile. Opposites attract, indeed. “Ready to go?” 

Sherlock nodded and rose to stand in front of him. “I’ve got the case to go over,” he told John. 

John frowned, remembering all the information he and Sherlock had taken in that evening. He’d also looked at a picture of Carl Powers for the first time in years tonight. John had forgotten how young the boy had been; how loved. Whenever he blinked, the image of Carl was replaced with John’s memory of him, pale in the dark with tears streaming down his face and blood staining his shirt. 

Sherlock looked at him as if he knew what John was thinking. His eyes roved over John’s face and he smiled softly. “I’ll be up all night,” he said. 

With Sherlock’s eyes looking at him so gently, John knew what Sherlock was really saying, but he knew that if he took Sherlock’s offer and spent the night with him, something might happen. He felt something in the air between them, an electric buzz that caused the fine hairs on John’s arms to stand on end and his heart to race. Though John liked to think he was pretty brave, he found that he was scared. Why for, he wasn’t quite sure. It had nothing to do with the fact that he wasn’t homosexual, as far as he knew, but everything to do with the way any sort of proximity to Sherlock caused butterflies to fill his belly, and the way Sherlock looked at him… 

He was too young to fall in love, but he knew that’s what he was doing. John found himself wanting Sherlock, wanting to know more about him, wanting to spend more time with him, and he was scared be the intensity of it. Even more so, he was scared that Sherlock didn’t feel the same way. 

“Better get you home, then,” John said. He pulled his keys out of his pocket and lead them out of the roller skating rink.   


The sky was littered with stars by the time John got home. He turned into the driveway and shut the car off, then sat there in the front seat. The radio was off and the night was quiet. So quiet that he could hear his parents arguing inside. John leaned forward and scrubbed his hands over his face. 

He hated this place. He hated the way his father yelled at his mum and the constant fear that his father might go too far one day. He hated the fact that Harry snuck out smelling of perfume and snuck back in smelling of alcohol. He hated the pricks he had to deal with at school, walking on eggshells around his father, and the feeling building inside him like he just might explode. He hated whomever had killed Carl and the men at the club and the scar on his shoulder. 

John got out of the car and pulled on his letter jacket. The night was nippy, which likely meant rain to come. He didn’t care, though. He needed to walk. 

His feet started moving without his conscious decision to go to St. Bartholomew’s Point. He walked with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets to keep the chill from his fingertips. When he got to the hill leading up to the overlook, though, he turned and headed instead toward town. He followed the same route he had that night, when he’d heard Carl scream for help, then he walked past it. He continued on until he saw the three storey house he’d been trying to resist. 

The lights were off, except for one that glowed dimly through the windows on the door and on either side of it; the chandelier, John remembered, that had been left on for Sherlock the night he’d slept over. The rest of the house and the yard was completely consumed by black, the shading of the trees keeping out the moonlight. 

John stopped on the walk leading to the front door and looked up at Sherlock’s window. The light was off. John was contemplating picking up a rock and bouncing it off the glass of his friend’s window when someone spoke from the darkness. 

“Are you just going to stand there and stare at my window all night?” Sherlock asked, before stepping out into the light in front of John. He was so close that John could feel his warm breath as it touched his cheeks. 

“Christ, Sherlock! You can’t just sneak up on someone like that,” John cursed. 

Sherlock chuckled. “It’s my yard,” he said. “I’m allowed to sit in it.” 

“In the dark, where no one can see you.” 

“I forgot my key,” Sherlock explained. 

“Did you try knocking?” 

Sherlock frowned. “Why, when there’s a perfectly good tree to climb right there?” he said, indicating the tall tree that stretched passed his bedroom window and brushed the roof of the house with leaves rustling gently. 

John tipped his head back and laughed. “You’re mad. Climb that thing in the dark? I’d like to see you try!” 

His friend canted his head to the side. “You don’t believe I can?” 

“No, I actually don’t,” John told him. 

A grin spread across Sherlock’s face and his eyes lit up. “Watch me,” he said, then he turned on the grass and tread through the dark to the tree. John could barely make out the outline of the trunk in the dark and it was a struggle to even see that, but Sherlock seemed to know exactly where it was and had no trouble getting a few feet off the ground. 

“If you fall, I’m going to laugh at you,” John warned. 

Sherlock huffed. “I’m not,” he told John, stretching for a higher branch, “going to fall.” 

Right on cue, the branch Sherlock took a hold of gave a mighty crack. The weight of Sherlock slamming into him knocked John to the ground and he grunted as he got tangled up with Sherlock’s limbs and a rough tree branch. “Sherlock?” John called worriedly in the pitch black. 

Sherlock shifted beside him and jabbed an elbow into John’s ribs. “I’m alright. Are you?” 

John ran his hands over his body. “I don’t think anything’s broken,” he said. Just then he felt a tickle on his arm and he touched the spot with his fingertips. “I think I’m bleeding, though.” 

“Come on,” Sherlock grunted, dislodging his foot from underneath John, then stood. “I believe I may have a first aid kit.” 

John got up and followed with his hands out in front of him so he could feel Sherlock’s coat. His friend moved slowly, so John could keep up, and lead the way around his house. A crack of light could be seen underneath the door of Sherlock’s shed and John lowered his hands, because he didn’t have an excuse to touch Sherlock anymore. 

Sherlock pushed open the door and John followed him into the dimly glowing shed. Sherlock went straight for a chest on the floor and began to riffel around inside. 

There was a trail of blood running down John’s arm from a cut where he’d been struck by the tree branch. 

Sherlock pulled out a first aid kit with an ‘ah!’ and walked over to John. “Sit,” he instructed, pointing John to a chair beside the table, with science equipment cluttering the top that John had seen Sherlock working at the last time he was here. John sat and Sherlock tore open a disinfectant pad. He took John’s arm in one hand and carefully wiped up the blood. Underneath, there was a nice sized cut, but nothing serious. Sherlock peeled a plaster out of it’s wrapper, anyway, and covered up the wound with it. 

“Thank you, Doctor,” John said, smiling down at the plaster. He pulled his coat back on and looked up at Sherlock. “This is where I say I told you so.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away, but he was smiling. “I was distracted,” Sherlock told him. 

“Oh? Find a bird’s nest up there?” 

“Funny,” Sherlock huffed. “Though I did find a beetle while I was waiting for you to show up.” 

That gave John pause. “Wait… You knew I would come?” 

“Obvious.” 

John frowned. “How could you possibly know?” he asked, crossing his arms. 

“Your father was drinking again, you were clearly on edge after meeting Irene and you’ve just done something after years of avoiding it. You didn’t want to be alone; you don’t like to be.” 

“How’d you know I’d come here?” 

“You knew I’d be awake,” Sherlock said. 

“Yes,” John nodded. “I wouldn’t say subtly is a strong point of yours.” 

Sherlock laughed. “I’ll remember to work on it.” 

John’s smile faded. “So… Irene mentioned someone named Jim; who’s he?” 

“You’ll be meeting him soon enough, I expect,” Sherlock said. His eyes, John thought, were avoiding his. “Are you going to ask me questions all night, or are you going to join me in looking these over?” Sherlock asked, holding up the case files. Changing the subject now, too. 

“If you want me to leave, just tell me,” John said, watching Sherlock’s stiff back as he spread the pages out on the desk already piled high with paper, books, and other miscellaneous artifacts. 

“I would enjoy your company tonight, John. Rather a lot,” Sherlock admitted, looking, finally, at him. “Jim will soon take over most of our conversations and I would rather not taint this night with thoughts of him. I would much rather think about you.” 

The shed filled with tense silence in the seconds after Sherlock spoke as John absorbed what Sherlock had said. When he finally heard it, John smiled, chuffed. “Yep. Not subtle at all.” 

Sherlock turned to him and tossed a small stack of papers onto his lap. “Less talking, more reading,” he instructed. John caught the tail end of a smile as Sherlock turned back to the desk. A pleasant warmth filled John’s veins. He picked up the pages on his lap and did as he was told.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Blythe for being an awesome beta, as always. Also, for telling me that it was about that time. You were right.

John cracked open an eye when he realized the warmth of bare skin under his palm. He turned his head and his nose went directly into Sherlock’s hair. It was a mess of waves that tickled John’s nostrils. Sleeping with his hair uncovered had caused Sherlock’s hair to escape it’s slicked back hold and now the curls were attempting to spring back into place.

John moved too quickly and cracked his head against the hardwood at the bottom of the sofa. He hissed and gritted his teeth as he looked at Sherlock, making sure he hadn’t woken him. Thankfully, Sherlock’s breathing was still soft and rhythmic and his eyes were showing clear signs of REM. 

Automatically, John’s eyes drifted down to Sherlock’s lips as if they were magnetic. He traced the curve of Sherlock’s bow lip with his eyes, imagining what it would be like to follow the path with his tongue. Thoughts like these had been coming into his head more and more lately and, in the quiet of the dark shed, John really couldn’t be bothered to ignore them. 

He wasn’t sure when Sherlock had joined him on the floor. The fact that he was laying on the hard ground beside John when there was a perfectly comfortable sofa, cluttered with newspapers and files, right beside them threw him for a loop. He was dressed in silky grey pinstripe bottoms and the same loose black t-shirt from the last time John had slept over. It was tugged to the side, revealing the milky white slope of Sherlock’s shoulder. 

He imagined burying his nose in the curve of Sherlock’s neck and inhaling the scent of his warm skin. It was soft under his hand, still flat on Sherlock’s stomach, and John found himself wanting to find out if all his skin was just as smooth. 

As much as he wanted to remain curled up against Sherlock, the persistent ache in his bladder was getting to be too much. With a very intense sense of loss, John extracted himself from the space he was wedged in. As he stepped over Sherlock, the boy’s eyelids fluttered and he rolled onto his side to face the sofa. 

John made a quick exit and circled around to the other side of the shed. When he returned, Sherlock was sitting up, yawning mightily. 

“Sleep well?” John asked, watching as Sherlock shifted, causing his shirt to tumble from his ribs to cover his belly. Yet another thing John would miss. 

Sherlock turned to him and winced. He groaned and rubbed at his neck, tilting it side-to-side. “Never better,” he said darkly. He slid his hands up and ran his fingers through his hair, slicking the tangles back into order with a pouty face. 

John laughed. It actually hadn’t been that bad, especially the waking up part, but now that Sherlock was up, too, he had to force himself not to stare at Sherlock’s tousled hair and his sleep flush cheeks. “I don’t see why you didn’t just take the sofa,” John said. 

“It was covered with papers,” Sherlock explained, as if that was actually a plausible reason not to. John wrote it off as laziness. 

“Sorry I conked out on you. Did you find anything?” 

Sherlock lit up instantly and leapt to his feet. “Yes,” he breathed excitedly, crossing the room to his desk. He snatched up a photograph of the most recent crime scene. John’s first instinct was to flinch away, but he gritted his teeth and trained his eyes to the image. 

“Look at their necks and their wrists,” Sherlock said. 

John brought the picture closer and frowned. There was bruising on the taller man's neck. It was faint, like someone had wrapped their arm around his neck from behind, but the bruises on his wrists were thin and dark, and there was chaffing and blood where he’d obviously been struggling against his bindings. Next, John looked at the shorter man and noticed that the bruising around his wrists and neck were much the same as the other man’s wrists. He handed the pictures back to Sherlock. “Two attackers? This one looks more violent,” he said, pointing at the red head. “Maybe he put up a struggle?” 

Sherlock shook his head. “Isn’t it obvious?” he pointed at a small nick on the brunette's neck. “They must’ve held him at knife point. His lover would never fight back like that if he knew they might use it on him. No, look at the way they were posed, the brunette looking at the redhead. They tied him up and made him watch as they killed his lover, then stabbed him in the heart. But they carved out the other man’s heart! Why? Why only his?” Sherlock demanded, slamming the photographs onto the desk. “Jilted lover? Doubtful. They were both clearly in love with each other, friends and family say for a long time. Maybe someone was in love with one of them, but they’ve been together for years, so why kill them now?” Sherlock tugged on his hair. The not knowing was clearly causing him to lose his marbles. “And what does this have to do with Carl Powers?” he blared. Sherlock smacked the papers off the desk and threw himself down onto the sofa, curling himself in a ball on top of the papers. John heard the distinct sound of crumples and rips. 

“Sherlock,” John said tentatively, worried that he might upset the other boy more than he already was. “Come on. We should get something to eat. You could use a break.” 

“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock complained to the back of the sofa. 

“Some fresh air, then.” 

Sherlock huffed. 

“We could go for a swim?” John suggested. 

There was silence for a moment before Sherlock lifted his head and turned to look at John. “You’re serious.” 

“Of course,” John smiled. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

The conflicted look on Sherlock’s face disappeared as he stood. “I know just the spot. Just let me get changed,” he said, before swishing past John and out of the shed. John hurried after him. 

* * *

“Come on, John,” Sherlock called impatiently. 

“There’s a fence here for a reason, Sherlock. They don’t want us going here.” 

“So? Rules were made to be broken,” Sherlock said from the other side. 

John glanced around before he sighed and linked his fingers into the fence. It took some struggling, but eventually, after removing his shoes and socks, he was able to make it to the other side. He landed with a thud and picked his shoes back up, shoving the socks down into the toes. “This is a bad idea,” John said, thinking of his father. He would kill John if they got caught. 

Sherlock didn’t say anything and John wondered if he knew how much John was risking to be here with him. John followed close behind him, avoiding sharp rocks with his barefeet. Sherlock had scaled the fence with no trouble; his winklepickers had fit nicely into the spaces in the fence. 

They came to a stop at a tree and Sherlock began to shed his coat. John followed suit, pushing down his jeans and folding them up. He placed them on the ground, beside Sherlock’s pile of clothes, with his shoes. 

He caught himself looking at Sherlock as each inch of lily white skin was revealed. He was fairly thin, but his arms and legs had a lean musculature about them that was very pleasing to the eye. His black pants accentuated the plump curve of Sherlock’s arse nicely and John had to force his eyes away when he realized he was staring. 

Sherlock glanced over at him and took in the shirt he still wore to conceal the scar marring his skin. “It’s just transport,” he said. There was a gentleness in the way he said it, though, that told John Sherlock knew what he was doing and why he was doing it. 

John hesitated, looking at the scarless expanse of Sherlock's long body, before he gave in and stripped the shirt off. He tossed it toward the rest of their clothes. Sherlock gave him a smile before leading the way. John’s stomach dipped when he saw the view from the top of the cliff. 

“Could be dangerous,” Sherlock said, glancing over at John. 

John nodded. “Ready?” 

Sherlock grinned. He backtracked a few feet and John followed. “At the count of three, let’s jump,” he said, his smile the brightest John had ever seen it. 

“1, 2, 3,” John called out quickly, and they took off running for the edge. They leapt off at the same time and gave a cry of awe as the world disappeared from beneath their feet and they fell through the open air. 

They hit with a crash and the world went silent as John was plunged into the water. For a moment, time stopped completely. For a moment, John was without a body, without thought, and nothing mattered. For a moment, he was alone in the world. And then he emerged and it all came rushing back. The world was bright with sunlight and the lively green leaves were trembling with life on the treetops. John turned at the sound of Sherlock surfacing and smiled bigger than he ever had as Sherlock turned on instinct to look for him. He’d never been happier and there was only one thing that could make this moment better. 

They swam for a long time, racing each other to the cliff across from them and back. They swam until their fingertips were like prunes, then they floated on their backs and talked about nothing and everything. John made sure to steer clear of the case and, as much as he wanted to bring it up, Irene and the mysterious Jim. 

They’d been silent for a while when John glanced over at Sherlock, the flash of his white skin catching his eye in the sunlight. Sherlock’s eyes were closed and his limbs were pushing rhythmically at the water to keep him afloat. There was a small smile on Sherlock’s face that he probably wasn’t even aware of. 

John swam toward Sherlock slowly, sneaking up on him. The water lapped at Sherlock's cheek and he opened his eyes to see John just before he dunked him under the water. Sherlock grabbed a hold of his arm under the water and tugged John down, too. They struggled against each other, wrestling under the water until they both needed air. Sherlock flipped his head as he emerged and his slick hair tumbled into a pile on top of it. John giggled as Sherlock wiped the water from his eyes and trod in place. Once again, he inched forward and came to a stop when Sherlock looked up at him with a glare, realizing how close he’d gotten. His lips parted and John watched him take in a deep breath. 

John didn’t even have to reach for him when he drew his hand out of the water, but instead of using it to plunge Sherlock into the water, he settled his hand onto Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock stared at him in surprise. 

“1…” 

Sherlock blinked and water dripped onto his face from his wet eyelashes. 

“2…” Sherlock closed his eyes. 

“3.” 

John leaned in and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock opened his eyes and parted open his lips. 

John pressed on, tilting his head for a better angle. Sherlock’s mouth was warm and John let himself in, sliding his tongue in against Sherlock’s. His legs tangled with Sherlock’s, too, as he swam closer and Sherlock’s hand settled on his lower back to keep him there. 

When they eventually pulled away, it was because they were both panting for breath and John worried Sherlock might bump against him and feel how affected he was by the kiss. 

They blinked at each other, speechless and shivering in a sudden breeze. A fat drop of rain splashed on Sherlock’s forehead and he looked up at the sky, which had gone grey without their notice. John saw him swallow a few times before he spoke. “The hill is on the other side of the cliff. I’ll race you to it,” he said. 

John flashed him a smile and took off, diving under the water. He swam as fast as he could, relishing in the cool water sluicing over him and calming down his racing heart. He reached the shore a little after Sherlock and clambered up, chasing after him up the hill. He barely noticed the rocks and twigs under his feet. Sherlock’s long legs carried him back to their clothes first and John braced his hands on his knees as he gasped for air. “You only won ‘cause-” he started, but his words were cut off as Sherlock pushed him back against the tree. The wood scraped his bare back and he would have gasped if Sherlock’s mouth hadn’t captured the sound in his mouth. 

Sherlock kissed him harshly, his fingers gripping John’s shoulders to hold him against the tree as he did. John barely had a chance to kiss back before Sherlock was pressing hard kisses away from his mouth, down John’s jaw. It wasn’t until he was making his way down from pressing gentle kisses to John’s scar that John caught up and realized where Sherlock was headed. He watched in disbelief as Sherlock dropped to his knees and hooked his fingers on the waistband of John’s pants, looking up at John with wide eyes. 

“No,” John breathed, catching Sherlock's thin wrists tightly. Sebastian’s words popped into his head unwanted and he shook his head. “No,” he said more firmly. “That’s not necessary.” 

Sherlock looked up at John like he’d just struck him, but John ignored him and tugged Sherlock up to his feet. He released him only to tuck his fingers into Sherlock’s hair. 

“No reason to look like that,” he said. He pecked a kiss on Sherlock’s lips. “Just not now, okay?” 

Sherlock nodded slowly, not understanding, and John couldn’t keep himself from leaning up to kiss him again on his pouting lip. A raindrop splashed on John’s shoulder and he pulled away with a groan. “We’re gonna get sick if we don’t get out of this rain,” he said. “What time is it?” 

Sherlock went to his clothes and glanced at his leather watch. “A quarter past 7.” 

John’s heart seized in his chest. “Shit.” He grabbed up the towel and patted it over his body quickly before tugging on his clothes. “Shit shit shit shit!” 

“What time does your family have dinner?” Sherlock asked, dressing just as fast. 

John glanced over at him, wondering how he knew that’s what John was worried about, but he was in too much of a hurry to question him. “7:30.” 

“Don’t worry," he said. "I know a shortcut.” 

John shoved his feet into his shoes and Sherlock took off running, leading the way. 

* * *

His father watched him with a sharp eye as he stepped into the house. John took off his shoes. He was soaked from the rain that had picked up as he raced home and wasn’t sure if he should go straight to the kitchen and set the table, or go change into something dry before his father noticed him dripping. He glanced into the kitchen and saw his mum was setting the table already. He clenched his jaw and went to the sink to wash his hands. 

He took over for her, placing the utensils on the table with his dad’s hawk eye on him. Ever since he’d read “The Tell-Tale Heart,” he’d been comparing his father to the man with the ever-watching eye. It never failed to make his hair stand on end when his father watched him, except he had good reason to fear his father’s notice. 

“Dinner’s almost cooled,” his mum said quietly. “Go get washed up.” 

John hurried to his room to change into dry clothes. When he got back to the kitchen, Harry was already settling in at the table and their father was being served his food. John swallowed thickly and sat down beside his sister. He glanced over at her, but she kept her eyes trained on her plate. She must've gotten in trouble for something herself, then. 

Dinner was quiet. They talked, but John barely heard a word. After everyone was done eating, he collected their plates and brought them to the sink. When he was done cleaning them, he braced himself for the trek back to his room. 

“Where did you get off to last night?” his father said. 

John froze and his lungs deflated. “I stayed the night at a friend’s house.” 

“Which friend? I saw Mikey Stamford’s father this afternoon and he said you hadn’t been there.” 

“I was at Sherlock’s,” he said. 

"That punk that's dating Harriet?" his dad asked, the distaste in his voice evident. 

"He's my friend." 

"I don't want you hanging out with him." 

John turned quickly to face his dad. “Why not?” 

"Have you seen the way he dresses? That boy's bad news and I don't want you or Harry hanging around him again." 

"But dad-" 

John's father stood and took a teetering step toward him, a beer clutched in one hand. "Don't you back talk me, boy," John's father growled. His father's fist shot needles of pain through John's cheek as it connected with his face and he hit the floor before he even knew what was happening. 

"I'm sorry," John said quickly. "I'm sorry for back-talking. I won't hang out with Sherlock again." 

His father teetered before him and John kept his eyes averted until he saw his father's feet shuffle back to his chair. John took a shaky breath before he got up and walked slowly to his room. Tears stung his eyes and he swiped at them before they could fall. He went into his room and opened his armoire to get out his pyjamas. 

"John," his mum said quietly in his bedroom door. He glanced over and saw that her eyes were watering and she was clutching a bag of green peas. She came into the room and shut the door with a soft click. She guided John's head down and tears slipped silently down his cheeks as she pressed the peas to his stinging face. He was shaking with fear and anger both. 

"It's okay," she whispered, using a corner of her apron to dry his tears. "It's okay." 

"No, it's not," he murmured into the fabric. 

"It's okay, John. It's okay," she kept saying. 

"No, it's not," John said more firmly, leaning away to meet her watery eyes. "You know it's not." 

His mum was silent. John covered her hand holding the peas and took them away. “Thanks, mum.” 

She pressed a kiss into his hair, then slipped quietly out of his room. 

John striped out of his clothes again and pulled his pyjamas out of the wardrobe. He pulled them on unceremoniously and laid down on his bed with his back to the door. He flicked off his bedroom light and watched as the rain sluiced down his window. Images of Sherlock and the day they’d spent together flashed through his mind until, finally, he fell into a deep, but restless, sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

Avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes was a hard thing to do, especially when you didn’t particularly want to do it. Every time John turned a corner, it seemed to only lead him to Sherlock. He’d gotten used to taking certain routes through the school just so he could see Sherlock for at least a little while between classes, but now that he was purposefully steering clear of him, it was like fate kept trying to put them in each other’s path once more.

He knew when Sherlock got the hint, because suddenly John just stopped seeing him around so much. He would catch glimpses of him, sure, but always only from a distance and not once did Sherlock look back. Once that started happening, he found himself tempted to try to be seen by him, to linger longer in places he knew Sherlock had to go, but he didn’t want to make things any worse than they already were. 

It didn’t take long for him to realize how much he missed Sherlock’s company. He’d gotten used to Sherlock’s ever-watching eyes and that blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile of his that pleased John whenever it was suddenly there and because of him. He hated his father for taking those things away from him. 

John hadn’t spoken to Sherlock in over a week when he was walking home from school and he heard a roar like thunder that stopped him in his tracks. He stopped under the sun's beating rays and watched as a gang of teen-agers rode into town on motorcycles beneath the blindingly bright sun. There were two that lead the way, one on a bike that was as black as night and the other as pale as bone. Dirt danced and filled the air in their path with choking clouds. 

The bikers came to a stop and parked their cycles in the alley beside Angelo’s and the guy on the white bike got off to go to the window. John could see Sherlock on the other side of the glass and he frowned when he saw the leery smile the biker flashed Sherlock, all teeth and a manic light in his eyes. There was something about the guy that rose John’s hackles, causing something to clench tight inside his stomach. The way Sherlock watched him coolly through the glass only heightened the suspicion that, whoever this guy was, he wasn’t someone John wanted around his... friend. 

The biker circled around the diner and went inside. He was followed by the guy who had ridden the black motorcycle who walked with a blunt confidence behind him. The rest of the gang stayed standing outside, passing around cigarettes and cracking jokes to pass the time. 

John didn’t even think about it before he crossed the street with barely a glance for his safety and entered the diner under the curious gaze of the bikers outside. He recognized two familiar faces among the group: Irene and Kate from the rollerskating rink. Irene held a shiny, cherry red lollipop in her hand as she watched him and whispered something into Kate’s ear that made the redhead laugh. Sherlock’s eyes went to him as soon as he entered. John thought he saw a flicker of something in the greaser’s eyes, but his face remained as still as a lake as he watched John approach. 

“Sorry I’m late,” John said as he reached their table and sat down on the seat beside Sherlock. “I forgot my History book in my locker and had to go back to get it.” He flagged down Billy and ordered a chocolate malt, then he laid his hands palm down on the table top before finally looking at the faces of the men on the other bench. He smiled pleasantly. “Oh, hi. I’m John. Am I interrupting something?” 

The boy on the other side of the table tilted his dark-haired head. “Jim Moriarty," he said in a strangely cheerful tone, "hi!" 

John recognized him as the one from the pale motorcycle and gave him a subtle look-over. Emblazoned on his leather jacket in silver stitching was the word “Spider”. He was lounging back with his arms along the top of the seat with a smile like he owned the place. 

“This here is Sebastian,” the greaser called Moriarty said. 

John’s eyes flicked over to the broad-shouldered teen at Jim’s side. There was a look in his dark grey-green eyes that dared John to try something. John gave him the same look in return, holding his gaze until he was sure his point came across, then he turned to Sherlock with a smile. “You hungry? I’m buying.” 

“Nothing for me, thanks,” Sherlock said, his eyes meeting John’s and lingering there until John forced himself to turn away. 

“You know what, Billy? I’d like a slice of apple pie if you’ve got any,” John called to the waiter. “I recommend it,” her said, looking back to the greasers across the table. “It’s delicious.” 

Billy came out and set down the malt shake in front of John along with a single slice of apple pie. The crust was perfectly golden. 

“Thanks,” John smiled, accepting the malt and taking a deep pull off the straw. 

“May I?” asked Moriarty, pointing at the pie with a thin finger. 

John nodded and slid it into the center of the table. “Take all you want.” 

Across the table, Moriarty plucked two napkins from the dispenser and laid them out in front of him before withdrawing a knife from his pocket to carefully slice the tip off the pie slice. “I only want a taste,” he said, scooping the pie up onto the blade. He brought it to his mouth and John saw Sherlock’s lip twitch as Moriarty bit down on the blade and slid the pie slowly into his mouth. 

“Mmm, that’s goood!” Jim said, his eyebrows going up as if he was surprised. He chewed slowly, watching Sherlock with an unblinking gaze. “But for a piece of pie is not why we’re here,” the greaser said. He wiped off the blade until it was golden, then he stabbed it into the napkin and began to spin it beneath his fingers like a spider spinning its web. “I heard you were back in town and I only wanted to say hello and to tell you to back off, Sherlock,” Moriarty said, his voice going suddenly dark. Sebastian stood up from the table and Jim closed the blade in his hand. “Before somebody gets hurt.” 

John watched Sebastian and Moriarty leave the diner and go to their bikes. Moriarty wiggled his fingers at them through the glass before he got on his motorcycle and the gang took off at once, their engines making the windows and water glasses tremble. John waited for them to agitate the gravel before he turned back to Sherlock. 

“What was that about?” he asked tensely. 

Sherlock turned to him with a fire in his eyes that looked both triumphant and terrifying. “Did you see it?” 

“Huh? See what?” 

“The knife,” Sherlock said, his energy awakened. “It was just like the one used to kill Carl Powers. That was the murder weapon, right there between his teeth.” 

A coldness dropped into John's belly. “Really?” 

“I’m afraid so.” 

John licked his lips, looked over at Sherlock. He didn’t know what to say to that. 

From beside him, John watched the light in Sherlock’s eyes dim as their eyes met. It was as if Sherlock suddenly realized they were together again for the first time in over a week. “Listen, John…” Sherlock said, his voice soft. He was trapped between the wall and John and so began to talk, sounding unsure of himself. “If I’ve done something to offend you, it was in no way my intention to do so. I understand if you don’t want to be my friend anymore, but I would like to know what it was I did wrong the last time we spoke.” 

John blinked. “What?” 

“If it was because we kissed, I can delete it and just pretend it never happened.” 

“Delete…” John started, then he realized what it was Sherlock was saying. “No! No, Sherlock. I… I’m sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong. My dad-” 

“Ohh,” Sherlock said in sudden realization, like he’d just found the right spot for a puzzle piece to fit. “Your father doesn’t approve of our friendship.” 

“I don’t care,” John said quickly. “I want to be your friend, Sherlock. I want…” he glanced toward the counter and saw Billy refilling sugar containers. “I want this,” he said, indicating both of them. He hesitated a moment before he reached for Sherlock’s hand, which was resting on his jean-clad lap. “All of it,” he assured. 

Sherlock’s hand, which had startled under his like he was going to pull it away, stilled beneath John's. He looked down at their overlapped hands, then looked up and gazed into John’s eyes until even John started to feel a little uncomfortable. The corners of Sherlock's lips pressed up and he turned toward the pie to hide his widening smile. He picked up the fork and speared a piece off the pie, then raised it to his lips. “Me, too,” he said, then he took a big bite. 

John picked up another fork and took a bite as well. Beneath his hand, Sherlock’s turned his over until they were palm to palm. John couldn’t hide his smile as he held on. He was still grinning when something caught his eye outside the diner window. Walking toward the diner on the pavement outside, he saw his mum and dad. 

Having followed his gaze, Sherlock froze up beside him. “Billy,” Sherlock said suddenly. “We’re going to need to use your backdoor.” 

The waiter nodded and went to hold open the door for them to rush out just as the diner door chimed with his parents' entrance. John and Sherlock stumbled out into the alley and John turned to greaser with his chest heaving from the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He reached out and pulled Sherlock to him by his leather jacket, and kissed him excitedly. “That was so close,” he laughed against Sherlock’s mouth. 

Sherlock smiled and kissed him back just as fiercely, balling his hands up in the back of John’s t-shirt as their tongues clashed together. When they finally broke away, he leaned his forehead against John’s. “You should probably go,” Sherlock said, his breath warm on John’s damp lips, though he still held onto John, unwilling to let go. “Your parents are getting take-away.” 

Smiling a blazing smile, John leaned up to Sherlock’s ear. “Come over tonight,” he whispered. 

Sherlock pulled back quickly and looked at him in surprise. “Are you sure?” he said, his iridescent eyes portraying the conflicting thoughts suddenly racing through his head. 

“I’ve never been more sure,” John promised, kissing Sherlock once, then one more time for good measure. He couldn’t get enough of the teen. 

“Okay,” Sherlock nodded, his eyes crinkling when he smiled down at John. “Tonight,” he said in soft confirmation. 

John grinned and kissed Sherlock once more before he took off running down the alley. He had to get home before his parents did.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that this fic is rated Explicit! Enjoy!
> 
> Thanks to my awesome beta, Blythe, for making this chapter run more smoothly! :)

John was sitting in the dark, drumming his fingers on his thigh as he sat propped against his headboard waiting for Sherlock. The house was quiet, his parents and sister fast asleep in their warm beds. The only sound to be heard was the tick of his alarm clock on the bedside table, counting away the minutes until Sherlock was to arrive.

The rest of the day after leaving Sherlock behind in the alley had been absolute torture. Returning home to sit in his bedroom and do homework with a night visit from Sherlock eminent was nearly impossible. How was he expected to care about how the Earth revolved around the sun when there was a possibility that he was going to have Sherlock beneath his lips later on? He felt half-mad as it was; adding homework to the kool-aid only made it worse. 

Well, he did finish his homework, though it took longer than it probably should have, and then he started to clean his room to keep his hands from straying to where he really wanted them, and that in turn led to him setting off to St. Bartholomew's Point to give himself at least something to do. 

Since he was a kid, St. Bart’s had been his go-to place when he needed to take a step away from things. It was where he went when the air of their little nowheresville town became suffocating. Facing away from town, it was easy to imagine that he was anywhere else. He often got this overwhelming feeling to walk and just continue walking until the town was far behind him. 

Now that he had Sherlock, though, he couldn’t bring himself to imagine walking away anymore. At least, not alone. A couple nights ago, John had a dream filled with light. In it, he was facing a golden sun from the passenger seat of his car. Twisting in the wind, tied to the rear-view mirror, was Sherlock’s black bandana, flapping like a Jolly Roger flag with the white skulls grinning down at John as they drove, the reflection of the town shrinking in the rear-view mirror. 

John had settled for chucking stones with all his might until the sky started to grow dark and then he returned home to wait, impatiently tapping away at his thigh with nervous fingers. He was just beginning to worry that Sherlock forgot or had changed his mind when he heard the lightest tap on his bedroom window. 

John’s heart immediately started racing in his chest and he stared at the dimly glowing window as he tried to get up the nerve to open it. He’d been thinking about this moment all day--hell, for weeks!--and now it was quite possibly only minutes away and suddenly John found himself with butterflies again. 

Doubt he hadn’t felt in a long time suddenly filled his thoughts. What if Sherlock saw him naked and decided John wasn’t what he wanted? What if he messed it up and hurt Sherlock? Through Harry he’d heard about a small bookstore just out of town that inconspicuously sold smut of same-sex partners and John had read up on how to go about everything, so he at least knew the technical aspect of how to do it, but that didn’t mean it was going to be all smooth sailing. He was suddenly very worried that he might scare Sherlock away. 

Another gentle tap on the window drove John to action and he climbed off his bed to go to the window, flicking on a dim yellow-lighted lamp on the way. He climbed onto the short footstool and opened the window to peer out. He found Sherlock fidgeting with a chocolate taffy wrapper, twisting and untwisting it between his long fingers. A wave of relief washed over him as soon as Sherlock gazed up at him with a look that very much matched the thoughts in John’s head and he smiled down at the greaser. 

“God, you always look so…” 

“Ravishing?” Sherlock supplied. His eyes twinkled as John laughed, but an undercurrent of uncertainty remained in the soft curve of his lips. 

John leaned out of the window and tilted Sherlock’s chin up to plant a kiss on his lips. Sherlock's lips remained stiff beneath his. 

“What is it?” John asked when he pulled away. 

“Your father’s here,” Sherlock said. “I don’t want to put you in harm’s way, John.” 

“I’m not scared of him. I want you, Sherlock, and I’m not going to let him take you from me.” 

Sherlock studied him quietly and John could tell by the small furrow between his brows that Sherlock didn’t believe him when he said he wasn’t scared of his dad, but then Sherlock nodded and shoved the wrapper he’d balled up in his hand into the pocket of his jeans before stepping on the rock beneath John’s window and reaching up to grab the ledge. 

John backed out of the way and watched as Sherlock hoisted himself as quietly as possible into John’s bedroom. John helped him to the floor with a hand on his back, and then they were standing there alone together in John’s dark bedroom. 

John was taken by surprise as Sherlock surged forward and mashed their lips together. He steadied himself by grabbing at the shoulders of Sherlock’s coat and kissing him back just as hotly. With a searching tongue, John tasted the chocolate taffy Sherlock had eaten earlier as he pressed him up against the wall for leverage. 

Sherlock gave a soft moan when John allowed his fingers to rove over Sherlock’s flat stomach and up his chest. His milky white skin was soft to the touch under his clothes and John relished in it by helping Sherlock take off his coat and pushing his shirt up over his head. On Sherlock’s ribs, John discovered a bruise, but he smothered the comment in his throat when he looked up and saw Sherlock quickly look away. 

In the same spot, John laid a gentle kiss, and that was followed by another on the skin directly beside it, then another and another until John had sunken to his knees on his journey to kiss a trail to the button of Sherlock’s blue jeans. 

He swallowed, faced with the reality of the situation in Sherlock's pants and looked up to Sherlock for approval before proceeding. There was a lovely flush to Sherlock’s cheeks and a look of nervous excitement in his eyes as Sherlock’s met his and the dark-haired boy gave a small nod. John licked his lips and reached for the button on Sherlock’s jeans. He undid Sherlock’s flies slowly. Not for seductive purposes, though that was a plus, judging by the deepening flush on Sherlock’s cheeks, but because there was this current of nervousness vibrating in his veins and he didn’t want to get clumsy in his urgency. 

John parted Sherlock’s jeans open and flicked his eyes up to Sherlock’s as he reached into his pants to pull out his cock. It was nice and hard in his hand and he took his first up close look at it with his own cock tenting his pyjama bottoms. He stroked his fingers down the firm flesh and watched as a ready bead of precome glistened at the tip. 

Curious, John leaned forward and, under Sherlock’s matching wide, curious eyes, lapped it up. 

Sherlock’s breath hitched and he quickly clapped his hand over his mouth as John proceeded to wrap his lips around the plump head of Sherlock’s cock to muffle the whimper that followed. His other hand dropped onto John’s head and he gripped onto John’s short hair. 

John pulled off with a gasp and looked up at Sherlock with lips shiny from both precome and saliva. When he saw the flush that had spread over Sherlock’s heaving chest, he licked the salty flavour from his lips and gave Sherlock a smile. “Christ, you’re gorgeous, Sherlock,” he breathed, admiring Sherlock’s long pale form above him, then he leaned in and sank his mouth down on Sherlock’s cock. 

Sherlock’s fingers continued to grip at John’s hair as the teen lavished Sherlock with his tongue. He didn’t put any pressure on John’s head, just kept holding on like he’d lose himself if he let go. Though it kind of hurt, it also felt good to have Sherlock clutching at him so desperately and John showed his pleasure of the situation by humming around Sherlock as he took as much of his stiff cock into his mouth as he could. 

He couldn’t resist palming his own erection through his pyjama bottoms; he’d been wanting to touch himself all day and finally--finally!--he was getting his chance. With another delighted moan around Sherlock’s cock, John gave his own length a few strokes through his pyjama bottoms, but had to grip himself firmly to stave off the wave of pleasure that quickly rushed through him, threatening to make him come too soon. God, he was loving making Sherlock go mad. 

John sucked at Sherlock’s cock until the head was leaking steady drips of precome, then he pulled off to tease his tongue along the slit. Sherlock’s hips startled forward and he began panting for air. Sitting back on his heels, John ran his hands up the back of Sherlock’s nearly hairless thighs and smiled up at him. 

“Are you ready to come?” John asked. 

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t want to,” he said, almost forgetting to whisper. “I want you to fuck me, John.” 

John groaned in relief and had to apply pressure to his cock, overly excited by the prospect. “Then lay down on the bed.” 

Sherlock nodded and shucked his jeans, shoes and socks as quickly as he could with his his suddenly gangly limbs before he laid down atop John’s bed and propped himself up with his elbows. His eyes were hooded as he watched John push off from the wall and make quick work of removing his own clothing, before crossing the room to him. He laid back as John climbed onto the bed over him and cupped Sherlock’s head in his hands. Sherlock dragged John down into a hungry kiss and parted his legs around him so their cocks could finally touch. 

With a stifled moan, John rolled his hips into Sherlock’s, spreading their precome across each other’s skin, and Sherlock clutched at him with his mouth parted open in a silent gasp. 

“John! Ah. Please,” Sherlock moaned breathlessly. 

“Shhh… Alright,” John whispered against his lips. He sat up on his knees, reached for the lube hidden away in his bedside table and uncapped it to get his fingers slick. Sherlock parted his legs even further and John licked his lips as he looked down at Sherlock’s entrance. 

It was John’s turn to be awed. Christ, how did he end up here? Why had Sherlock chosen to open up to him of all people? Sherlock was usually so guarded around everybody, yet here he was looking at John with these wide, almost bashful eyes, offering everything for John to take if he wanted. It was wonderful, and it was terrifying. 

Shifting quietly on the bed, John did as he learned in the manual and stretched Sherlock slowly and carefully, even though it drove them both mad. Sherlock struggled to keep quiet through the process, panting softly and making small sounds of pleasure behind his hand while he watched John prepare him, but as soon as John moved up the bed and lined himself up, Sherlock’s words were instantly silenced and he held onto John with his lips parted in silent awe as John began to push into him with his throbbing cock. 

As the manual said, Sherlock showed signs of discomfort, but he stayed quiet, clutching at John as he sank into him at a slow but steady pace. Once John was to the hilt inside him, he stayed there, listening attentively to the quiet around them as he waited for Sherlock to get used to the feeling. After a while, Sherlock’s body lost a bit of its tension and John experimentally began circling his hips. 

“Ahh,” Sherlock gasped, digging his fingers into John’s back. 

John stilled and pulled back to look at Sherlock. 

“I’m alright, John,” he said. “Fuck me.” 

John watched Sherlock’s face carefully as he did what Sherlock said and began pulling out, just to sink back in at the same pace. 

It all happened so naturally. One moment, John was carefully controlling his every thrust and the next he felt Sherlock rolling his hips, meeting every one of John’s thrusts. The arousal John had been feeling for the better part of the day increased and he became taut with tension. Sherlock held on as he chased his release. 

“John,” he moaned, struggling to muffle his pleasure. He wrapped his long legs tighter around John’s. “John! Ah! I’m going to come.” 

Out in the hallway, John heard the flick of a light-switch. He froze instantly in horror and met Sherlock’s startled eyes before glancing toward his bedroom door. He could see the light streaming from the hallway underneath the crack in his bedroom door. His fists balled in the sheet on either side of Sherlock as they listened on halted breath to the creak of footsteps out in the hallway, waiting for them to get closer, praying that his bedroom door didn’t fly open. 

They stared at the beam of light until they heard a flush in the bathroom and then the light disappeared. When it was quiet once again, John released a long, shaky sigh of relief and turned back to Sherlock with a grin. He bent down and captured Sherlock’s lips in a quick, heated kiss as he reached down between them and began stroking Sherlock’s cock with renewed vigor. He watched Sherlock’s face, unable to peel his eyes away as he brought Sherlock back to the edge. The flush of his cheeks deepened in colour as he got closer and closer to his release. 

Suddenly, Sherlock’s eyelashes were fluttering and his back was arching off the bed. He dug his heels into the mattress and whimpered John’s name as he came in spurts onto John’s belly and his own. His hole clenched tight around John and John barely managed a handful of deep thrusts before the tension inside him snapped and he spilled inside Sherlock with a low moan buried into the side of Sherlock’s neck.. 

John’s breath gusted out of him as he rolled over to relieve the tremble in his thighs and collapsed onto the bed beside Sherlock to catch his breath. After a few moments of steady breathing, he reached down to the floor and plucked up his shirt, then turned toward his quiet bedmate and smiled when he saw Sherlock still looking stunned. 

“Alright?” John asked, swiping up the mess on both of them before depositing the shirt back on the floor and tucking his hands under his head so he was facing Sherlock. 

Sherlock nodded his head. “I… wasn’t expecting it to be so intense,” he admitted. 

John chuckled softly. “Oh good, there are some things you don’t know!” John whispered playfully. 

Sherlock feigned an eyeroll as a smile took over his lips. “There are some things I don’t know.” 

“Hm?" John raised an eyebrow. "What else?” 

Sherlock’s flushed cheeks deepened in colour. “What your come tastes like. You’ve tasted mine, so it’s only fair that I get to taste yours.” 

John giggled and batted Sherlock’s chest with the back of his hand. “What else?” he asked. 

“I can’t tell the future,” Sherlock said, sounding slightly disappointed by the fact. 

“But you can predict a helluva lot of what’s going to happen.” 

“Mm. Yes.” 

John studied Sherlock’s profile and decided to ask the question he’d been wondering a lot about lately. “What do you want to happen in your future?” 

Sherlock pressed his kiss-plump lips together in thought and eventually gave a small shrug. “I’d like to return to London some day, perhaps become a detective.” 

John nodded, having predicted as much. 

“Well, there’s something I should probably tell you, then,” John said, eyeing the side of Sherlock’s face. 

Sherlock turned suddenly to him with his brows furrowed. “What?” 

“I can tell the future,” John told him. 

“Oh?” Sherlock asked curiously. 

“Yes,” John said, leaning over Sherlock’s bare shoulder. He grazed his lips against the shell of Sherlock’s ear. “For instance, I know that I’m going to kiss you in precisely two seconds.” 

Sherlock smiled over at him with laughter dancing in his eyes and John did as he’d predicted and covered Sherlock’s lips with a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! I would really love to hear what you guys thought of this chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> If you have time, I'd love to know what you think of this so far!
> 
> Also, I have a [tumblr](http://whichwolfwins.tumblr.com/) if you'd like to follow me! :)


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